


Something New (2nd revision)

by mouriana



Category: Forever (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 12:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 86,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouriana/pseuds/mouriana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combine boredom, a murder, and a secret immortal and you have a recipe for change....</p><p>ETA April 7, 2016 ALL DONE!   Will probably upload edits in the future, but in the meantime, enjoy!<br/>ETA May 20, 2016 Made some changes to the final chapter.  It makes more people cry now, so that's good, right?<br/>ETA July 2, 2016 Working on (what I hope are) final edits to full work.  Also, found this link to stream all the episodes of Forever for free, in case you haven't seen those and you need to know what the heck I'm talking about: http://www.cwseed.com/shows/forever/pilot/?play=1ef0d762-bc9e-4a1f-95b4-0678897d759f</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1, Emma POV

I woke up at nine a.m. that Thursday feeling wonderful. I stretched and savoured the warmth of my bed for a number of minutes, as I knew the early April chill would greet me as soon as I pulled back my blanket. 

Colin’s call from the sitting room tried to pull me from my decadent rest.

“Emma! It’s time we practised your forms!”

I pulled the comforter closer around me, as if it could protect me from my duties. It was only a minute more before Colin knocked on the door and then opened it enough to stick his head in. 

“I know it’s cold, but you really must get up.”

“Why are we doing this again? You know I’m not any good at forms.”

“That is why you must  practise , Miss Emma! It will be good if anything ever comes up when you’re out and I’m not there. Come now, the mat on the study floor will make it far less chilly on your feet.” He shut the door and left me to my own devices.

I languished a moment more, noting how he had tried to sneak in yet another hint of my going out without him. I had lived in this flat since 1947 and never went out at all until Colin was a teen and began to insist, and even then, I never went out alone I knew he had my best interests at heart—he had long insisted it wasn’t healthy for anyone to hide away from the world—but I also knew he longed to have his own life and pursue his own career. I did wish for those things for him, really I did. And someday I hoped to give them to him. But I was still reluctant—terrified even—of being on my own. Other people were to be observed from a distance, through windows and writing and screens. It kept me safe. I had been hurt too deeply before. I did not wish it again. 

I threw back the bedclothes, letting the chill morning air hit me full strength. After dressing quickly in my  dobok,  I went out to the sitting room where Colin was waiting for me, already stretching after his own morning exercises.

“Well, good morning, Miss Emma. Nice of you to join us today.”

I refused to let him goad me. It only gave him fodder to try to coerce me from the flat. 

“You really should treat your elders with more respect, young master Colin.”

He braced his hand against a door frame and stretched his arms. I felt a sort of motherly pride over him, despite my teasing. 

“I’m thirty-eight, Emma. You shouldn’t call me ‘young master.’”

“At my dizzy age, everyone is young.”

He suppressed an eye roll; I could tell by his expression. “Precisely why you shouldn’t call me that. I don’t care if you  are two hundred and thirty—”

“Two hundred and  twenty-nine,” I corrected.

“Two hundred and  twenty-nine , you look twenty-one and you must act at least around that age. And don’t say ‘dizzy age.’ I looked it up, they haven’t used that term since Queen Victoria’s reign!”

“With all the phrases you young people are constantly coming up with these days, it will hardly stand out. Besides, isn’t—what’s the new term—’retro’ a good thing?” We had gone through a long period in Colin’s teens into his early twenties where he had been continually mortified by my beyond geriatric phrases. But now he simply teased, and I saved my most dated and peculiar terms of speech for when we were in public. It was a simple enough game.

He smiled a half-smile at me, turned, and began walking towards the study/exercise room. “If you wish to call two hundred year old idioms simply ‘retro.’ Let’s go start your forms. You won’t get better if you don’t practise.”

“I won’t get better either way,” I said under my breath as I followed.

“I heard that.”

I wrinkled my nose at him behind his back, my only recourse politely silent. 

“I still think learning these things is quite a waste of time. Even if I get killed, I just come back every time.”

“Immortality won’t save you from injury or attack, Miss Emma. You know that. And the chances of me having children to pass on the responsibility of watching over you diminish with every passing year.”

“Yes, about that, what  do  you do on the evenings and weekends when you go out? You really need to stop fraternising with your mates at the pub and find a nice girl.”

“Emma, we are  not talking about my love life again. As if you know anything about it.”

“I was married, once.” We both had usually avoided the subject of the other engagement.

“Mm-hmm. And how did that work out for you? He killed you while trying to rape your maid, wasn’t it? Yes, that went just swimmingly.”

We were on the exercise mats in the study now and he was facing me, but I wrinkled my nose at him again and moved into position. He moved into position as well and we bowed to each other. Now the  real sparring would begin.

His broad-shouldered, six-foot-five inches of muscle and sinew towered over my petite form and his dark, loose-fitting outfit only made him more formidable. The very thought that I could remotely compare to him in my ability to defend myself was laughable. But with a stoic and serious expression, he attacked.

The good thing was, my mind was quick enough to read the signs of where he would be and our many practises had taught me enough to know how he was planning to overtake me. The bad thing was, my body could never move as fast nor as nimbly as my mind. Over and over he would come at me, and over and over I would try, generally unsuccessfully, to block him. Every time I would fail, he would sternly say, “Again,” and we would restart. Every time I would come close to stopping him, he would praise me. “Good. You’re not cringing as much as you used to,” or, “Well done, don’t be afraid of hurting me.” At least he was not reluctant to praise.

After one particularly painful failure that left me sitting on the mat, I was panting as I stood to face him again. “Your great-great-grandmother would be appalled at the very thought of teaching a lady physical defence.”

“Helen? She was unnaturally proper, wasn’t she?” He attacked again, and after a moment of futile defence moves that looked more like a thrashing fish on a river’s bank, I was on the floor again. 

“Helen was a true lady’s maid,” I panted, “and was indispensable to me during the Great War.”

He helped me up again and we squared off. 

“I don’t see how you needed much help, being as bookish and reclusive as you are. Oh, and the word is ‘bookish,’ not ‘bluestocking’ like you always used to say. Yet another ancient phrase you used so much I thought it was normal.”

He attacked again, a quick battering attack with both hands aimed at my throat. In twisting to avoid his arms, I managed—quite by accident, I assure you—to hook a leg around his, throwing us both off balance and onto the floor. But since he landed on the bottom, I considered it a victory and grinned in delight as I got up, bouncing on my toes. After I calmed down, I answered his question. 

“I hardly taught you those things. I merely used the phrases, and you picked them up. I didn’t ask you to mimic me.”

He blushed but his expression did not change from the stern look he typically wore. “Well, any child would be fascinated with the prospect of serving an immortal who never aged and who had had saved his ninth-great grandmother in grandiose style.”

He attacked again, and though he was quick, I could tell exactly how and where he leg would strike. But this time I did not try my feeble attempts at blocking him. I let my body go limp and fall upon the floor, causing him to overshoot his kick, throwing him off balance, which allowed me time to get back up and run from the room. 

“We’re not finished!” 

“She who fights and runs away—!” I called back. Then, feeling quite guilty about my trick, I turned back and stuck my head into the room. “We’ve been sparring for forty-five minutes. Can we not end a little early today?”

He huffed, then gave me a small smile. “Very well. Would you like more computer lessons later?”

I wasn’t quite sure about that, so the smile I returned was weak, but I agreed. On the one hand, I did love learning new things. And I had seen enough to know that the knowledge was increasingly necessary for altering records as needed to make my official persona match what I looked like. On the other hand, computers were still a mechanism that I did not feel completely comfortable with. Give me books to read, philosophies, hard sciences, puzzles, languages, music, cyphers. But these electric—no, electronic—devices changed so rapidly that I had hardly learnt one thing before another was upon us and the things I had just learnt seemed useless. Though I was increasingly attracted to the seeming limitless information offered by the ‘Internet’ thing.

I went to my room and opened my wardrobe, the contents of which represented a multitude of fashion eras and icons. I had another wardrobe filled with more modern fashion choices, but some days I simply wished to hide away in another time, and today was one of those days. It felt like people saw the person, era, or costume I wore, rather than me. And it reminded me of different periods in my life, so it seemed to carry me away to another place and time as well.

I looked over my choices and decided that today I would be Jackie Onassis, with a pink dress suit and pillbox hat. After bathing and dressing, I went to the kitchen, put on an apron, and began fixing breakfast. 

Back when I had been growing up in Suffolk under King George, a lady of my birth and status did not cook. That’s what we had servants for. We were just supposed to look pretty and be ‘accomplished’ in a number of ways—often simply just different iterations of being idle. 

Sarah and a few generations of her descendants were happy to cook for me, even when times were harder and it was not exactly practical. But I have what I like to call a discriminating palate, and a little over a hundred and twenty years ago, Colin’s great-great-great grandmother Abigail had quite enough of my complaints and hovering in the kitchen and told me I should just start cooking for myself. So I did. It was one of the few useful skills I felt I had gained over the years.

I was feeling rather peckish, so I may have gone to a bit of extreme with breakfast. Homemade beans and sausage, streaky bacon, potatoes, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried bread from the loaf that I had made from scratch the day before, and five eggs between us. When Colin came into the kitchen, fully dressed and drying his short dark hair with a towel, a smile creeped onto his face when he saw his plate on the table. 

“I hear that some people use tinned beans and bangers from the butcher,” he said as he sat and put his napkin in his lap. “Poor sods.”

I laughed despite his language. While we teased each other often, simply because we had lived in the same household for so long, it was good to be together. Neither of us really had anyone but the other.

  


“So,” said Colin casually between bites, “why are you dressed in garb from 1960’s America today?”

“It’s not just 1960’s garb. It’s Jackie Onassis. And why do I ever dress up?”

He paused, covering his contemplation with another bite. After he had swallowed, he responded, “I’m still not sure it provides the barrier between yourself and others that you always claim.”

“It does in my head, and that’s really all that matters, isn’t it? But today it doesn’t matter, as I’ve received a new book and I expect it to occupy my entire day quite nicely.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. I had heard there was a Rachmaninoff revue tonight that I thought you might enjoy.”

Oh, he knew how to tempt me. But I was determined. “No, you know how I hate to go to such things alone, and tonight is your billiards night. I shall simply stay home and read. Perhaps another time.”

He looked up at me. “I feel bad that I was teasing you this morning, Emma. It would be my pleasure to escort you to the concert.”

I looked at him with narrowed eyes. “There is another reason, Colin. Come now, you can’t hide from me. We tease each other every day; it’s certainly not enough for you to give up billiards night.”

He looked away and chewed on a well-timed bite. Finally, he sighed and confessed. “Trenton and James have other engagements and Bill is sick. So there is no billiards tonight.”

I smiled a crooked smile. “Ah, I knew it was something. As punishment for your subterfuge, I take you up on your offer, and shall make you sit through an entire night of Rachmaninoff with me.”

He laughed and took another bite. We both knew the one who would have a harder time going out was me, but that’s what made it funny.

We chatted convivially through the rest of breakfast, after which Colin offered to do the washing up, which I cheerily accepted. I removed my apron—which I typically wore through meals at home, simply because my clumsiness would ruin all of my outfits if I did not—and washed my hands, then went into the sitting room and placed myself on the piano stool.

I could not contain the warm smile as I looked over my Steinway grand, it’s warm, black wood frame such a familiar friend to me over the decades. I drifted my hands over the ivory keys, allowing my eyes to close as my mind flooded with memories. Two things, and two things only, had been my constant and true companions throughout all of my two hundred and twenty nine years. Books, and music. They had been dear to me before I was murdered that June day. Now they were a lifeline. 

Almost without thinking, my fingers went from caressing to working the keys. Decades of practise left the details of many pieces, from simple to complex, firmly in my mind and hands. I don’t know how long I played, my eyes often closed. I moved almost seamlessly from piece to piece, composer to composer, even a few original pieces. Once I awoke from my musical meditations, I opened my eyes and allowed my hands to rest. I felt exhausted, spent, but blissfully happy. 

I could feel Colin watching me, and I turned to see him leaning against the door frame to the kitchen, a dishtowel forgotten in his hands. I smiled at him. 

“Sorry, I didn’t realise you were listening.”

“I always listen. I know I’ve said it before, but you really could be a concert pianist.”

I laughed. He was right; we had had this conversation  many  times before. “I am not nearly as good as you claim. You are biased. And besides, playing piano publicly would require me going out in public. I can’t have that.”

He smiled. “I know you wouldn’t like it, and perhaps the limelight would make it a bit too much. But I still must insist you have the skill. You have many skills, in fact. I will not concede that point.”

I smiled and shook my head, then closed the cover on the piano and stood. “Shall we begin our computer lessons?”

While I could sometimes be careless with the order of physical things, Colin in every way was not. In both schedule and workspace he was meticulous. So it was with our computer lessons. Even though we only held them at my leisure, he was always completely prepared with lesson plans and exercises. So when he grinned a rather wicked grin at my asking to begin our lesson, I was a bit nervous, but I followed him into the study anyway. 

I sat in the chair at the desk in the corner and turned to Colin standing behind me, ready to begin.

“Today,” he said with professorial authority, “we are going to fully practise your ability to mask an IP, break into a simple security system, and delete a specific segment of video footage.”

I blanched. We hadn’t practised anything for at least a fortnight, and never such a complex operation. Well, to me it was complex. To Colin I was sure it would be simple, but I was excessively insecure when it came to any computer technology beyond the search engines. 

“A complete operation? Isn’t the goal just to allow me to be able to change my public records as needed, not hack into CCTV systems?”

“A complete operation. And while I am sure that the everyday CCTV footage will not be a problem, you must be prepared for the rare exceptions. And remember, you have to be quick, or else you will be detected.” He smiled again, but it was more encouraging than wicked this time. “Do not worry, Emma. You are more capable than you think. I have complete confidence in you.”

He drew an index card from his pocket. “I’ve already picked the target: a loading dock in Manchester that is rarely used. I have the IP of their CCTV system on this card. I also have the specific time codes written out that I want you to erase and I have already made sure they have nothing important in them.”

I took the card, swallowing hard as I read it. “Well, you’ve certainly been thorough.”

“Emma, if you are going to maintain altered public records of yourself, this is important practise. You know this. I know it’s not exactly changing your birth certificate, but many of the basic skills are the same.”

I could only nod in response. Then I took a deep breath, put my hands in position above the keyboard, and began.

It took roughly twenty-five minutes, though admittedly, much of that time was dawdling. But I finally finished and backed out quickly, turning to Colin for my validation. He smiled at me and I knew I had done well. 

I couldn’t help myself. I giggled with glee and relief. No matter how long I lived, it was very hard for me to see myself as skilled in any area, or feel proper pursuing things once considered purely under ‘man’s domain.’ Though my father had been encouraging in my scholarly, logically, and scientifically minded pursuits, my mother and almost everyone else I had met in my first one hundred and eighty years were decidedly not. 

After enough reprimands, blockades, and awkward moments, I had ceased thinking the pursuit—or at least the display— was worthwhile, at least by me. My hundred year self-imposed complete exile from society only exacerbated the effect. Still, I would read whatever I could get my hands on and analyse everything I saw. As long as no one saw or heard me doing it, it wasn’t a problem, right? 

Hoping to get a little extra treat out of my success, I added, “For that, you owe me dinner before the concert.”

“For that, you deserve it.”

I was very glad of it. If I  had to go out, having a decent crème brulée that I didn’t have to make myself would make it worthwhile.

Afterwards, I spent the afternoon reading in the sitting room. I really had no idea what Colin was doing, as I was far too engrossed in my book to pay mind to much else. But when the clock over the mantel struck four, I roused myself from my self-induced stupor and put the book down. Blinking myself back into the real world, I rose, stretched, and went to find Colin. 

It didn’t take long, as he was right where I expected to find him, typing away at the computer. 

He quickly closed the program he had been working on, then turned to face me a moment after I entered the room. The speed spoke of hiding something, but I trusted him that it would not be too diabolical and I did not wish to pry.

“Work or pleasure?”

“Ah, just a bit of side work Trenton passed on to me a week or two back.” 

I nodded. When we had thought his parents would be serving me for decades to come, I had funded his dream of receiving his doctorate in Computer Security at MIT in the States. He planned to work in the private sector until the time came that he would be needed to take on the family mantle, and I had been delighted to see him so excited about his chosen career. But his parents had been killed in an automobile accident a little over a decade ago and he had come to take their place in my service, cutting his private career short. I could not restrict his prodigious talents to me, either in good conscience or in reality since I required very little from him, so I encouraged him to take whatever side jobs that came up. 

“Are you at a point where you may take a break?”

He nodded.

“I am thinking of that delightful little French restaurant on Savile Row for dinner.”

He smiled, but it was a bit wan. I knew he considered my culinary tastes a bit too posh, and he had acquired an abominable penchant for greasy fare while he was in the States. 

“Come now, you get to have pub food every week when you are out with your mates. It is my turn. And besides, it is close to the concert hall.”

His smile grew more sincere. “Yes, you are right there. And we are celebrating your work today. I shall freshen up and we will eat French tonight.”

He was already in a suit jacket, white oxford shirt, and nice slacks, but I knew he was as meticulous about dress as he was about everything else, so I nodded and went to my bedroom to prepare myself. 

My pink dress suit was woefully unkempt after wearing it so much of the day, but I didn’t wish to change. Instead I removed it, steamed it a bit, and put it back on. Then I refreshed my dark lipstick, set my auburn hair, donned and pinned the matching pillbox hat, and put on the requisite white gloves. When I came back out to the sitting room, Colin was already waiting at the door, looking dapper in a navy pinstripe suit that accented the ghostly pale blue of his eyes quite well. His look when he saw me was rather disappointed.

“Oh, Emma, I thought you would change for going out.”

“This ensemble brought me luck today and I shan’t change it out now.”

He sighed, but knew my stubbornness was equal to his own. His choosing to be genteel rather than argumentative spoke much of his goodness.

“Would you like me to get the car, or would you prefer to walk today?”

“A walk would be divine, Colin. It’s not that far, and the weather is fine.”

He extended his elbow to me, which I took with a smile. Then, despite my claims about the weather, he picked up his umbrella from the stand by the door on our way out. 

  


With Colin I felt comfortable being rather open, informal, and overall comfortable. After all, I had known him since the day he was born. But out in public that was quite another matter. Growing up in Suffolk I had always been shy. But after my first death, the fear of discovery forced me to remain hidden and secluded from the world. When enough time had passed, I ventured out upon occasion. I even travelled abroad a bit in the nineteenth century. But then circumstances changed during the Great War and I shut myself away completely.

Colin knew the why, but he said it didn’t excuse my cloistering myself from the world. He was constantly telling me my agoraphobic behaviours had become habits that fed into my anxieties. I told him he paid too much heed to that introductory psychology course at Cambridge. Still, he constantly pushed me to leave the flat. I knew he truly believed it was best for me, so I didn’t mind too much. I even occasionally left the flat at his urging, a large enough feat in itself. But I had found little to convince me that such bold actions would be worthwhile. 

However, recently I had discovered a letter. It was an official-looking letter, so I assumed it was a bill and did not properly look at the addressee before opening it. It was a job offer for Colin. Apparently his side jobs for friends had impressed some people at a tech company so impressive that even I knew who they were. The offer was very lucrative and prestigious, and from what I had heard about the company, the working environment and opportunities made this a dream job for many in the industry. As he had not formally applied for the job, they were giving him three months to think about it. I had quickly resealed the letter and left it for him to find, saying nothing.

I knew him, though. He was so faithful, honourable, and caring that he would never entertain the idea of leaving me alone. No matter how much he insisted I could do more than I claimed, he would not abandon me unless I gave him reason to believe I could do well enough on my own. It didn’t matter that with this flat and modern conveniences, I required little more from him than the shopping, a little dusting, and his company. I was holding him back, and had been for years. I cared about him too much to continue to do so. I hoped that he would still be close enough to visit, but I needed to let him have his own life. 

So, when I felt I had the fortitude, I suggested small outings. To increase my skills at going out, and, if all went well, to eventually convince him I could do it. I still wasn’t very good at it, though. And one thing about being two hundred and twenty-nine years old: you tend to lose track of time and before you know it, a decade has passed and you’ve lost many opportunities. The job offer was only good for three months. I really needed to take every opportunity to go out that I could find.

I had found long ago that  Le Coq au Vin on Savile Row had the most delightful dishes, which was an incentive to push my public interactions a bit more. I didn’t always appreciate dining out in London, but this particular restaurant was one of the few that could be called divine, and to my joy, it had kept its reputation over the years. Colin, though he was all politeness, was less enthusiastic. When he went out in his free time on evenings and weekends, he frequented pubs, chip shops and places that served American cuisine. It wasn’t that he didn’t like proper food. It seemed, instead, that despite all my best efforts to teach him well when he was growing up, he actually  preferred cheap, greasy food. 

It was quarter of five by the time we arrived, a little early for supper, but ideal for getting my favourite table by the window. Colin disliked it when we sat there, especially when I was dressed in ‘one of my outfits.’ But I loved to watch the people as they passed, guessing at their lives and purpose. I could study them without having to interact, safely behind my glass wall. 

Conversation was comfortable and familiar, though mundane. He spent the daytimes with me, unless he was running errands or on holiday. He slept in the flat at night. The time he spent outside the flat, playing at darts, billiards, or rugby with his friends or going about other business, seemed minuscule in comparison to the time spent telling me about it, so there was little new to stimulate our conversations. I smiled and laughed at appropriate moments in the same old stories and anecdotes, but I found myself already yearning to for other stimulation. While I did not seek out the company of strangers, neither did I relish boredom.

“What time is it?” I finally asked Colin after a long bit of silence while waiting for the crème brulée. 

“Half past five.” 

“I don’t believe the concert starts until half past six. I know you will want to be there early, but could we go for a little stroll first?”

He smiled, but it was rather unsure. “Are you sure? You are usually so reluctant to gad about in public.”

I hesitated. As I said, I had found little to convince me to go out. But being out now reminded me that the outside world may not be as intolerable as I often feared, and in the light of having less than three months to convince Colin that I could survive without him, I was determined to be brave. 

“Emma?”

I shook my head to clear it. “Yes, yes. I am quite sure. It will be good to get out. I will prove to you that I am not quite the incorrigible hermit you say I am.” I winked at him impishly and he smiled with far more confidence.

The dessert came then, distracting me from spiralling down into any more entangling thoughts.

Colin had ordered a sizable slice of chocolate torte, far too rich for my taste, though I was the first to admit that I was generally weak for almost any sweet. It was the one culinary realm where my palate sometimes failed to be so discriminating. But crème brulée was my biggest weakness.

Twenty minutes later, we were finally at the door of the restaurant, nearly ready to go. As I pulled on my gloves and wrapped a lace scarf around my neck, Colin checked his watch and looked up at the dimming evening sky. 

“The sun is nearly set, but if you are resolved….”

I hid my trepidation behind a large smile and slipped my arm around his proffered elbow. “Quite!”

We had just begun to saunter along Savile Row up towards Clifford Street when I noticed there were no cars moving past us. None whatsoever.

“That’s odd.”

Colin stopped and begin scanning the area. “The street cameras are all shut off.” 

I looked up and saw that, indeed, the cameras, which normally had small red lights on them, were all dim and unmoving. Colin was already trying to pull me back toward the restaurant. But in the fading evening light, I made out one car and one car only, stopped ahead on Clifford Street. Though it was not moving, the headlamps and billowing exhaust in the chill April air told me it was running. That, along with it being in front of an alleyway—where, of course, it was not legal to park—made a chill run through me. I resisted Colin’s pull.

“Something bad is happening,” I insisted. 

Colin continued to tug at my arm. “Yes. We should go back to the restaurant and call the authorities.”

Much of me wanted to do just as he suggested. My muscles even prepared to turn me around. But something deep inside said No. It said it strongly, defying my sedentary nature. My seven deaths pranced vividly through my mind, with the question, “how would things have been different if someone had come to my aid?”

I pulled my arm out of his and swallowed hard. Turning to Colin, I’m sure my expression mirrored his concern, but I said, “My conscience will not allow that another person be hurt because I am afraid.”

As I turned back towards the suspicious vehicle, a tall figure ran out of the alley carrying a large bag with something heavy in it, and something long and slender. He threw the items into the waiting vehicle, quickly climbed in after them, and the car sped off, racing past us with tinted windows that allowed us to see nothing within. Feeling a little safer, I began running towards the alleyway, noting that down the road someone was taking barricades down that had been blocking the entrance to this one-way street. That explained the lack of other cars. 

Before I reached the opening to the alleyway, the stench of blood and the emptying of bowels told me that someone was dead within. I paused while I took out my handkerchief and put it over my mouth and nose to block some of the scent. Death was not something I was afraid of. But there were always so many other things that came with it. I turned to Colin, who had run up right behind me. “Do you have your small torch and your mobile?”

He nodded, fishing them out of his coat pockets while covering his nose with the back of his left hand. He switched on the torch and took a step towards the alley.

“No, Colin. You call the police. I will see if there is anything I can do in there.”

“Are you insane? You have no idea what’s in there! I am three times your size and, if you’ll excuse me, far your superior in strength and agility. It would be far safer for me.”

“Colin, I know death better than perhaps anyone, so perhaps I can see something of use. Besides, you are mortal. Which makes it actually safer for me.”

He looked at me long and hard with his brows buckled in uncertainty. Then he nodded and held out the torch.

I paused and swallowed, then took the torch. 

He watched me carefully for a moment, then used his mobile to phone the constables while I turned my attention to the alley. 

The angle and height of the surrounding buildings blocked the evening sunlight almost completely, making me especially glad for the torch. It revealed an almost empty space, except for the conspicuous body on the ground about ten feet in. Alleys in this part of London were typically kept at least moderately clean, but even I was surprised at the lack of anything—most particularly useful clues—on the ground around the body. 

I put my handkerchief, which I had lowered while talking to Colin, back over my nose and mouth. There was neither skips nor bins here, but it was still horrifically malodorous. In the light from the torch, it was easy to see why. The well-dressed decedent had met quite a violent end. His head had been completely taken off. 

I scoped the alleyway with the torch’s beam, and stepped carefully around the outer edges of the alley to search, but I could not see the head anywhere. That would explain the bag the tall man had thrown into the car. I did not dare get close to the body. I was afraid in my clumsiness I would disturb the scene. 

“The police are on their way, Emma.”

“Thank you, Colin.”

“Have you found anything of use?”

“His head’s off. Who would take someone’s head off, in an alley in London, in this day and age?” Though I was still reluctant to move much closer, I crouched and moved the torch beam over the body, trying to get as good a look as possible from where I was.

“I don’t know, but you may want to come out of there.”

His timing was impeccable. 

“Here now, what’s going on there!” It was a constable, and it startled me so completely that I cried out and fell back on my backside.

I turned to Colin and the constable, who were lit a reddish orange by the late sun. Colin looked as though he had been as startled by the officer as I had been. But he quickly recovered and turned to explain our situation. 

“We saw someone flee the alley and then climb into a sedan and speed off. So we ran up and found this man here, already dead. I phoned it in as soon as we found him.”

“What were—here now, what’s she doing?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said rather meekly, “I was just seeing if I could help.”

The officer pulled out his own torch and quickly assessed the situation. “’Is ‘ead’s off!” He muttered in enough shock to let his rougher accent come out. Then he turned back to me as he pulled out his radio. “It doesn’t look like you can help him any. I’ll need you to come out of there.”

Colin came over and helped me get back up as the constable called the incident in. I spent quite a few moments trying to get blood and grime off my skirt before coming out of the alley to stand very close to Colin. I was trying to be brave. I was. But I still stood with as much of Colin between myself and the officer as I could without being impolite. 

The constable saw my discomfort, though I would guess that he ascribed it more to the shock of seeing a decapitation in London than surmising the actual reason. He gave me an authoritative smile that I’m sure his superiors had taught him to do to comfort witnesses in such circumstances as these. “It’s all right, miss. I’m sorry you had to see such a thing. We’ll just have a few questions and then you and your husband can be on your way.”

I doubted it would be that simple. 


	2. Chapter 2 (John Watson POV)

It was Thursday and I was bored. I still didn’t like to admit that I was addicted to a rather violent lifestyle, but I did have to admit that after over a week of no calls from Sherlock with a case, I was feeling a little stir crazy. And when he called that Thursday evening, saying that there had been a beheading in central London, I was actually rather glad about the prospect.

“You want me to join you at a beheading?”

“Well, it’s already been done, but Lestrade has called and asked me to take a peek at it. Really only a six, of course, but—”

“A six? You are ranking a beheading in central London only a six? With the possible terrorist implications alone—”

Sherlock immediately  tsked my theory away. “It’s in the art district, John, less of a political statement than artistic expression, I am sure. You really can’t rank a murder merely on method of death.”

We had seen some most interesting cases based on single stabbings, so I supposed he was right. “But you never respond in person if it’s less than a seven. If this is only a six—”

“I’m  bored, John. I’ve resorted to playing Cluedo with Mrs. Hudson twice in the last week. Twice! If you had been here, I would have had you fetch my revolver.”

I chose to ignore that last statement and agreed to join him. 

I made my way into London and met Sherlock at Baker Street. He filled me in on the information he had been given while we took a cab to the crime scene. 

“Beheaded in an alley, head nowhere to be found, but the body is well-dressed and still in possession of various valuables, though the identification was gone. So obviously personal. Two witnesses, but they couldn’t identify the attacker as it happened at dusk and they were quite a few metres away.”

He seemed almost down, and fidgety. Hadn’t found the cigarette stash, apparently. 

“You  are bored if you’re responding to a six. Maybe you should find other hobbies besides crime.” 

He looked at me as if I were insane. Which is only marginally better than his usual looking at me as if I were an idiot.

I shrugged it off. “Just saying, you already know the violin, maybe you could play, you know, for fun, instead of just to help you think about crime. Or you could collect something.”

“I already have collections.”

“Body parts, poisons, and types of tobacco ash do  not count.”

“As if you make the rules.”

As we approached the crime scene, Greg Lestrade approached us, apparently having arrived himself only moments before. 

“Rather odd, Sherlock. I thought you would want to see it.”

“I’ve seen beheadings before. They are not really—”

“Well they do make the initial identification a little more difficult..”

Sherlock shrugged. “Still shouldn’t be that difficult to figure out. Really, Gary—”

“Greg.”

“Whatever. I’ll look into it briefly, but if it doesn’t become far more interesting than what you’ve described, you’re on your own.”

And that was our master of charm in action. 

As we approached the alley, it was bathed in lights from a number of police cars as well as some rather bright forensic lights. Officers and techs were teeming about the site collecting information. To the left of the alley, two rather more ordinary-looking people were standing with their backs against the wall. One, a great behemoth of a man, dressed sharply in a blue suit and tie and a long tan overcoat, with his arms crossed in front of him and his eyes looking about impatiently. The young lady next to him was petite and rather pretty, with short auburn hair and bright eyes, but dressed in some pink polyester outfit right out of a 1960s period piece, complete with one of those little round hats and matching pink handbag that she held with dainty white gloves. She seemed somewhat uncomfortable, almost as if she would hide behind her large companion if she could. 

“I assume those are the witnesses?”

Lestrade looked to where Sherlock had gestured. “Yeah, that’s them. They aren’t bad, as far as witnesses go. Cooperative and good with details, but they couldn’t see much from where they were in the poor light.”

“She has an interesting outfit on. Were they on their way to a party?”

Greg half-smiled. “No, that’s the funny part. They were going to a piano concert. He says she just dresses like that sometimes.”

“Ah, so they’re together? He seems a bit old for her.”

“No, he’s her employee. She’s an heiress, turns out. Just rather shy.”

Sherlock was looking at them with the furrowed brow that said there was something that had captured his interest there, but then he turned his attention to the crime scene. 

“Is the body still in there?”

“Yes. We were hoping you could give us a lead on who the victim was, you know, to speed up the investigation.”

Sherlock and I made our way past the techs and the barricades to the body, sprawled out on the cobbles. While Sherlock took out his magnifying glass, I took a quick look at the wound itself.

“He was still alive when his attacker took his head off.”

“Yeah, our techs said the same thing. Blood flow and spatter and all that.”

Sherlock was looking at the victim’s shoes, his cuffs, his nails. Everything. As usual. 

“I’d say he was going to some sort of charity event or fundraiser, probably a ball, and he wasn’t walking, judging by the soles of his shoes. He was important, or at least well-to-do. He enjoyed being out of doors, but more as a spectator than a true sportsman. Though he had been in some sort of row in the past few weeks. This being London, that could be any of a number of people at any of a variety of local events. I need more information before I can give you a name.” 

“Charles MacIntosh!”

The exclamation had been preceded by a gasp, so soft that I almost didn’t notice it. Sherlock stood immediately, and looked towards our witnesses. This drew the attention of more of the officers, and as more eyes turned toward them, the young lady tried to disappear more and more behind her escort. 

“Charles MacIntosh?” asked Sherlock. While normally his voice would be harsh and direct, I think her skittishness softened him a bit. “The MP from Scotland? What makes you say that?”

Everyone was looking at her now, which at first made her retreat even further, gripping her servant’s arm as if it could shield her from all the stares. The man himself was making motions that indicated he did not feel she should be shielded. She looked at him, then back at Sherlock, and stepped forward a bit. Not completely out of her safe spot, but enough that she could be seen.

“As you said, his shoes indicated dancing. Specifically, ballroom dancing most likely, and a decent amount of it. And though they are a style about seven to ten years old, they don’t have the wear that would indicate a more constant use. So he had this pair—a rather expensive make—just for dancing. Not many men would do such a thing.” 

She smiled weakly, as though she had said something funny, then quickly let it fall when no one laughed. She cleared her throat.

“When we got here, there was a faint scent—under all the effluvium, of course—of chrysanthemum. But there were no chrysanthemums around, and I don’t know of any colognes or perfumes with that scent. So I thought it must have been taken when they took the other information that would have identified him quickly. Most men wear carnations, or roses, or other flowers as boutonnieres. Not chrysanthemums. Since this man was apparently well-to-do, and probably a public figure, a few names came to mind.”

Though her voice had become a little stronger as she explained herself, she now paused and looked sheepish again, her eyes darting amongst the dozens of eyes watching her. Sherlock had narrowed his eyes looking at her and we were all silent for a moment.

“I assume there is more?”

Her tongue darted out as if she wanted to lick her lips, then thought better of it. She nodded. “The tan on his hands—yes, the pattern very indicative of someone who spends a good amount of time outside, but not as an active participant—had a clear mark of a ring on his right middle finger. For a man of high station, it is an unusual place to regularly wear a ring. But of the public figures I could recall who regularly wore chrysanthemums, I could think of one. Charles MacIntosh, the Scottish member of Parliament, known for his sport interests and penchant for formal dancing, and who wore the family ring on his right middle finger because that was the finger it fit best, and he was too sentimental to have it resized.”

One could tell she was finished because she began melting back behind her companion. But then an interesting thing happened.

“What’s your name?” It was Sherlock asking. In his rare nice-voice. I looked at him and he was smiling at her, as though he had just found something interesting. 

Not quite completely hidden away again, I could see the faintest upward curve of her mouth in return. 

“Emma Bedingfield.”

It was like trying to coax a rabbit out of its warren. And Sherlock, of all people, was doing the coaxing.

“Well, Miss Bedingfield, were you able to discern anything else about the scene?”

She glanced toward the alley. “I didn’t get a very long look, but considering we saw the person fleeing the scene throw something long and narrow into the car, and how the head seems to have been lopped off in one great blow,” she looked up at her servant, “Is that too indelicate? Forgive me if it is. But I would guess we’re looking for someone with a greatsword or claymore or the like. And not a particularly sharp one, though obviously sharp enough to do the job.”

Everyone was quiet, and the looks moved between Sherlock, who seemed, as usual, a little too happy for a murder scene, and this shy young lady who was putting forth almost every effort to not be noticed. Though, I realised, neither was she reticent in what she had deduced. Her fear seemed to be in talking to us, in being the centre of attention, not in being unsure of what she knew.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock. “Well?”

“Well, what? You’ve got a dead MP on your hands, Lestrade. I would think that would warrant a bit more liveliness on your part.”

“Oh, God,” said Lestrade, pulling out his phone. All of the other officers immediately sprang back into action, writing things down or gathering more evidence.

“Oh, and I’ll take the case,” Sherlock added, to no one in particular.

I was a bit taken aback. “What? Not fifteen minutes ago you were telling us you would just help identify the body. That this case was no more than a six.”

“Possibly even a five,” he replied, tucking away his magnifying lens. “But it has its merits. And it’s far better than Cluedo with Mrs. Hudson.”

I looked back at the two witnesses. The tall man, who had been silently protecting his young employer the whole time, was now talking to her softly, while she nodded and replied in whispered tones, all while her eyes moved methodically between him, the crime scene, and Sherlock. Merits, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3 (Emma POV)

By the time Colin and I were finally able to go home, I was shaking, and not just from the early April chill. 

Oh, the body. That poor man. His poor family. Not even a head to identify him with. It was all so horrible. And I have seen some pretty nasty things. But that had not been the source of all of my discomfort. 

There had been  so many people. So many officers and investigators and people with booties over their shoes. I hadn’t dealt with police for well over a hundred years, and things had definitely changed. Asking questions and taking fingerprints and asking us to wait while more people showed up to ask more questions. They even asked us to come back in the morning. For more people and questions, I am sure. 

Colin had been a dear through the entire thing, stalwart in protecting me from the eyes of everyone there. He constantly asked how I was and gave gentle reassurances. I was ashamed that I had failed so utterly in proving to him my potential for independence.

Perhaps Colin was right. Perhaps the more I have retreated into books and observation, the worse my fear of society has grown. While I had always been shy and somewhat socially awkward, it seemed that what little skill I had in the area I had lost. 

At least the Detective Inspector and that Mr. Holmes seemed rather nice. Very unlike what I have read about him in the papers. And he believed my observations. That was validating. 

I was used to observing, analysing, trying to figure things out. But I had learnt long ago to kept my observations to myself, even though it would often have been nice to have them verified. This time, however, I had realised the identity of the victim in such a burst that I had foolishly blurted out his name despite my habits and my better sense. Then the direct questions had come, and it would have been rude not to answer them. But to be believed and backed up (by someone other than Colin and his family, of course) was something new to me. And it was nice.

We were going up the lift to our flat when Colin finally broke the silence. 

“Are you going to be all right? I’ve never seen a murder before, and that one seemed particularly gruesome.” He shuddered. “And of course, I had no idea that would take so long or involve so many people. It’s after eleven.” 

The trembling had reduced to just my stomach, so I nodded. “I didn’t realise it, either. But I suppose that is the price we must pay for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That was a very good deduction, figuring out who the victim was.”

I smiled slightly. “Thank you. I’m just sorry it took so long. And that I said it out loud when I realised it. I’m afraid I garnered far more attention than I wanted.”

He expelled a breath as the lift doors opened and we walked toward our door. “Hopefully it won’t continue too much more. After all the statements we gave tonight, I was rather surprised they even asked us to come in in the morning.”

My brow crinkled. “Yes. I don’t have any idea if that’s routine.”

We paused while he unlocked the door and I felt the last of my tension release as we entered my sanctuary. 

“Do you think there will be a lot of scrutiny on us? I mean, my records are all legitimate and clean, so I’m not worried about that. But your records have been forged or altered for decades. How old do your current records say you are? Twenty-nine? You look remarkably well for that age.”

I sighed, my brow still furrowed. “Yes. If I had known this would happen, we could have altered them again beforehand. But there’s no use crying over spilt milk. Hopefully we appeared innocent enough that they will ask us only for our witness statements, nothing more.”

Colin nodded. As he hung up his coat, he added, “I’m sorry we had to miss the concert. I know how you love Rachmaninoff.”

I sighed, but smiled wearily. “Not as sorry as that poor man’s family will be, I am sure.”

He looked back at me, his mouth drooping and his eyebrows drawing together. “Do not fret over this all night, Emma. Nine will come early.”

I nodded in return. “Thank you, Colin. Good night.”

I went immediately to my bedroom and dressed for bed. As I set my suit aside, the thought that it was ruined seemed so inconsequential next to the thought of the man whose lifeblood now stained it, that even throwing it away seemed too drastic a reaction. I washed my face and brushed out my hair, then climbed into bed and lay there for quite a while, Colin’s advice to not fret going completely unheeded.

Death came to everyone but myself, whether I cared for them or not. It was easier when they were strangers that died, anonymous faces in the obituary columns. But seeing this man, brought to the dust like that, all of his life, dignity, and worldly status stripped away, made me suddenly so sad for him and his family. And I wasn’t sure how much I could stand to get involved. Getting involved meant making myself very uncomfortable. But not getting involved, or at least helping where I could—that was no longer totally comfortable either.

I had wanted to try to strengthen myself to allow Colin his own life. This was, perhaps, the universe’s way of telling me I could not do so as gradually as I had hoped.

I could not sleep for hours. 


	4. Chapter 4 (John POV)

Arriving at Scotland Yard the next morning, I was ushered into the room behind the one-way glass where Sherlock was waiting. He was watching through the glass, where Emma Bedingfield sat at the table. She looked quite different from the night before. It was now obvious that her auburn hair was rather short and curly in a somewhat unruly manner, and the emerald green of her blouse matched her eyes perfectly. This morning she wore no makeup, but she was still very pretty. She seemed to be trying to shrink into her chair. But I was afraid she had drawn Sherlock’s attention, so her efforts would be futile. God have mercy on her. 

Her hands were in her lap, and her shoulders drawn forward. She occasionally glanced around the room, but as there was nothing but a bleak metal table, another chair across from her, and the great one-way mirror on the wall facing her. Without much to see, she would return to staring at the tabletop, her attention focused inward. 

“Didn’t we get her witness statement last night? It seemed rather straightforward. What could you have dragged her in for this morning? Do you suspect her of some misdeed?”

“Perhaps. Her employee was certainly large enough to do the job, but there was no blood spatter on either of them and no weapon nor any of MacIntosh’s effects to be found anywhere nearby. Considering that the coroner said the time of death had been only minutes before the police arrived, I don’t think they could have done it and then cleaned themselves up, effectively hidden all the evidence, and changed clothes before police arrived. But if this was particularly well planned out, it’s possible.” Without another word, he left the room, leaving me to stand there and wonder how he thought it could have been possible. Within moments he appeared in the interrogation room and sat across from Miss Bedingfield. 

She looked up at him, but said nothing.

“Miss Bedingfield, you’ve been hiding something. So I’m going to need you to answer some questions.”

She cocked an eyebrow, but still said nary a word.

“Tell me,” said Sherlock, apparently unaffected by her silence, “when you look at me, what do you see?”

She waited a moment, then responded matter-of-factly, “A man in a great, dark coat.”

I couldn’t see Sherlock’s face, but I could tell by his body language that he was already impatient. “No, I mean what do you  observe? ”

Again, she cocked an eyebrow. “Curly hair, turquoise eyes, long fingers.”

Sherlock was growing ever more impatient; I could tell by his loud sigh and quick, tense motions. But his words were surprisingly civil. “I will show you what I mean. You, Miss Bedingfield, are used to something of a quiet, domestic life, but you are afraid of something. You have secrets. You do not care much about what others may think of your appearance. You are more than shy; being around strangers terrifies you. You play the piano quite a bit and like to bake and cook. You are clumsy. You have seen death more than most.”

She did not flinch nor act surprised by what he saw, unlike most people he read in this manner. She simply looked at him, took a breath which was somewhat exaggerated but not dramatically so, then let her eyes drop back down to her hands in her lap. 

It was a long, tense silence, then finally Sherlock stood up, exasperated, and left the room.

The second the door closed, Miss Bedingfield looked up at the mirror. 

“Doctor Watson, could you please tell your cigarette-sneaking, dead-thing dabbling, domineering friend that I do not respond well to intimidation nor being forced to perform.”

She stopped talking, dropped her eyes to her lap, and pressed her fingertips to her forehead the very moment that Sherlock burst back into the room where I stood.

“Such wasted talent! She—why are you smiling?”

“Was I?” I forced the smile down with some effort.

Sherlock glanced towards Miss Bedingfield again, then back at me. 

“Did she say something after I left the room?”

“Perhaps.” Though it was her intent to have said the things to me and not to Sherlock, it did feel good to know something he did not, even if just for a moment.

“Which was?” 

“She asked me to tell my cigarette-stealing, dead-thing dabbling, domineering friend that she does not take kindly to intimidation nor being forced to perform. Her exact words.”

His grin split his face like someone had committed a particularly atrocious murder and he practically jumped for joy.

“I knew it! Ah, this is wonderful!”

“How so? I know it’s rare, but you have met others with your gift for observation. Moriarty, Magnussen, Mycroft, Miss Adler….”

“Oh, she could be another of those. She certainly has the potential. I will have to observe more to make sure. If not, what an incredible find!”

“How so?”

He interrupted his excitement to give me one of those  how can you not see it, it’s so obvious  looks. “It’s something new, John! Something that has great potential to be very interesting.” 

He almost laughed, but then became focused again, his hands pressed together in front of his face. “Now I just must convince her to join in this investigation so I can see what her potential really is….”

“She told you how.”

He looked up at me, a question in his face.

“She doesn’t take kindly to intimidation or being forced to perform, Sherlock. Those are your usual modus operandi. So, perhaps you should try being kind to her?”

He looked puzzled.

“Oh, come on. I know you can do it, I’ve seen you be nice once or twice. You even convinced Janine that you were in a real relationship with her for three months.”

“Ah,” he breathed, realisation opening up his features. “Yes, that facade could work quite well, John, yes.”

“Or,” I said quickly before he could let the facade idea run amok in his head, “you could try being sincere. You know, for safety’s sake. If she observes as well as you seem to think she does, she might be able to see through even  your facade.”

He blinked. There was a long, silent moment. Like, the time I asked him to be my best man level of unnerving silence. Then he blinked again, turned around and left the room.

He entered the interrogation room moments later, but with a softer demeanour than he had used before. He even had his coat collar down, which he hardly ever does since he thinks it makes him more imposing. It actually made me nervous when he did that, as it usually meant he was up to something. 

“Miss Bedingfield, I apologise for my previous behaviour. It was rude and uncalled for.” He sat in the chair opposite her as he spoke, moving more slowly than his usual brash, hyper actions. He really was trying to play her.

She didn’t bat an eye. “What is it you want, Mr. Holmes?”

“Sherlock, please.”

Again, no visible or verbal response. She just watched him until he answered her question.

“I was hoping to obtain your assistance in this investigation.”

“What sort of assistance? I’m already a cooperative witness. I’m sure any other sort of help would produce a conflict.”

“I would like you to join us as we gather information to solve the case. I have been doing such work for Scotland Yard for years despite there being rules against my assistance. I can make sure everything is arranged.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I would rather not.”

“The work would be mostly cerebral, I assure you. There is very little physical risk.”

Her smile was very small and prim. “With my coordination skills—or lack thereof—physical risk does not particularly scare me, Mr Holmes. I am used to pain.”

“It is quite a stimulating pastime, actually. I am sure you would find it quite interesting.”

“I am sure that I would. However, I would still rather not.”

I still could not see his face, but I knew he was struggling internally. It wasn’t often he couldn’t intimidate or cajole others into giving him exactly what he wanted. 

“May I enquire as to your reluctance?”

She looked down and away, and something that looked like regret or pain flashed across her features. For a minute, I thought she would not respond at all. Then, quietly, she said, “When it comes to people, I would far better prefer to observe than to interact. I am far more adept at the former than the latter.”

Sherlock’s posture straightened up, as I imagined something new had come to mind. “That is why you have Mr. Gidney as your servant.”

She did not cast a glance in his direction. “And that is why you are friends with Doctor Watson, is it not? To have someone about who knows your secrets and your weaknesses and cares about you anyway? Who may even see more in you than you see in yourself?”

Observant, indeed! I had felt sorry for her, but now I wasn’t so sure. Who was playing whom? 

Apparently it was enough to throw Sherlock, because it took him at least two seconds to continue. “And what  are your weaknesses, Miss Bedingfield?”

She laughed a short, bitter laugh. “They are legion. Pride, too much of a taste for sweets, a strong desire to escape from people and even reality. Which I indulge far too often. A tendency to be content without growth. Clumsiness. But I have long felt it is not our weaknesses so much that define us. It is whether or not we choose to fight them. Which, unfortunately, I usually do not. I am sure you understand.”

She looked up at him then. “You are rude, controlling, narcissistic, even show traits of a sociopath. And yet—” She narrowed her eyes as if she were peering into his soul. “And yet, though you have weaknesses there that you have encouraged for far too long, it is  not  what you are. You push people away to protect yourself. Most people, anyway.”

Sherlock did not respond. Her gaze on him was steady; her mousiness and insecurity had fallen away like fall leaves. But then she seemed to remember where she was and her tone became softer.

“Indeed, we are both insular and deficient in social skills. But I have found it to be difficult to always be completely alone, hence I value Colin’s friendship and company. It would be hard to  always be alone, would it not?”

There was another long moment of silence, then he got up and strode from the room. Her brilliant and powerful show of confident brilliance faded away like the evening sun and her shoulders slumped again, her eyes returned to the table.

I expected Sherlock to come back into the room where I watched and waited, but after a few minutes I realised he was not coming back. I went looking for him.

I found him near Lestrade’s office, looking over some paperwork as though he had not been schooled by a pretty little girl just minutes before.

“Ah, John, good. It looks like this was a well-planned effort, as the street cameras were shut down by a trojan virus for precisely an hour around the murder. MacIntosh had been—”

“What happened?”

“Excuse me?”

“In there. With Miss Bedingfield. You just left. What happened?”

He turned back to the papers. “She wasn’t interested in joining us, so I decided it wasn’t worth pursuing the matter.”

He was deliberately avoiding looking at me. 

“You never give up a point so easily.”

No response.

“She was making you uncomfortable. She was right, wasn’t she?”

Still no answer. 

“You can’t handle that she can read you so easily. And not just the physical clues. The psychological ones.”

He waved his hand, dismissing my comments like an annoying insect. But I could tell I was right. 

“Do you believe she could be an enemy, like the others we’ve encountered with that level of intelligence?”

Pause. Still avoiding eye contact. “I don’t think so.”

“Ah.” I watched him for another moment, but he was still pointedly avoiding me. So I walked back to the interrogation room, where Emma Bedingfield was still sitting at the table, her brow puckered and her eyes unfocused, deep in thought. I sat down across from her.

“So.”

Her eyes met mine, but her brow did not relax and her head did not lift up. 

“Would you like to join us in this investigation?”

Her gaze returned to the table. “I was of the understanding that the offer had been rescinded.”

“I’m reinstating it.”

“There are rules against it, Dr. Watson. I’m sure that the factor that I am a witness makes it even more prohibitive.”

“Sherlock can make it work.”

She looked at me again. “I don’t believe he wishes to any longer.”

I put my arms on the table. “I think you’re good for him.”

She laughed that short, bitter laugh again. “You seem to be under the impression that I am far more capable and magnanimous than I truly am.”

This wasn’t going terribly well. Perhaps Sherlock had been right. I got up and took three steps towards the door, then remembering something, I turned back to her. 

“You said earlier that you have a tendency to be content without growth. That you run from people and reality. And that it is how we fight our weaknesses that defines us.”

She looked up at me again, her brow still puckered, but a tinge of sadness and regret in her expression. 

“Yes, I did say that.”

“Well, you have a choice now. Shall you fight your weaknesses?”

Just the edges of her mouth turned up in a smile that did not reach her eyes. 

“And they say that Sherlock is the smart one.”

She turned back to the table in silence once again, and after a few more moments without more response, I left the room. 


	5. Chapter 5 (Emma POV)

The morning came too early, just as Colin had predicted. I scurried to get ready and within minutes we were in the car heading to Scotland Yard. Colin, as ever, drove. It seemed only yesterday to me that speeds above twenty miles per hour were considered quite reckless, so modern speeds were very uncomfortable to me. I had never even sought a driving permit. Truth be told, the only remotely modern conveyances I trusted—and I had tried nearly all of them—were trains, most probably because they had come along when I was still relatively young and more open to new ideas. 

I let my mind wander along this path for nearly the entire drive, avoiding thinking of where we were going, but inevitably the very act of avoiding the thoughts made me obsess over them. There would be a lot of people there. Strangers. Such a cacophony of sights and sounds and interactions and manners that it nearly made me hyperventilate thinking of them. 

Colin saw my tension. “Breathe, Emma. It won’t be as bad as all that. Just breathe. Soon it will be over. Though, you know, it may be good for you to talk to someone besides me for a change.”

I nodded again, not looking at him. It was difficult to speak when I was nervous. I knew he was right, that I needed to adapt. I just wanted more time. 

We arrived in good time, and after parking the car, we walked to the large and imposing building. I tried to appear confident, keeping my back straight and my head erect, but I knew I was clinging a bit too tightly to Colin’s arm and inside I very much wanted to turn around and run. Once we were in the lift, Colin finally spoke.

“My hand is going numb.”

“Oh! Sorry.” I forced myself to loosen my grip. He gave me an easy, comforting smile. “Emma, you will be fine!” I took a deep breath, willing all the tension out as I exhaled. I envied his social confidence, but mostly I was very glad he was with me. 

When we found Lestrade’s division and Colin asked where we were to go, the assistant looked a little confused and left to ask. I was unnerved. Apparently it  wasn’t always standard protocol to call witnesses in the morning after giving their statements at a crime scene. My mind began going over possible reasons we could have been asked to come in—and who could have requested it, since the assistant at the front desk obviously hadn’t been informed—and came to only one conclusion. And I wasn’t sure I liked it. 

When the assistant came back, he was very polite, though he seemed a little nervous. He led us to a hall with a bench and a few doors into rooms without windows. I guessed they were probably interrogation rooms. He directed us to a rack where we could hang our coats and after we did so, he turned to me.

“Miss Bedingfield, I was told he wanted to talk with you first. Mr Gidney, you can wait here.”

I had expected this separation all morning, but if this was instigated by the person I thought, for the reasons I thought, I guessed Colin would never be asked to go into that room at all. But I nodded and smiled and let the assistant lead me into the closest room; empty but for a couple of chairs facing each of the long ends.

“Have a nice day, Miss.” And he was gone. I took another cleansing breath, which didn’t help much, and sat in the chair facing the one-way mirror. I had seen enough police procedurals on the telly to at least now how  that  was supposed to work. 

The chair was hard and uncomfortable, the table plain and a bit beat up. I glanced around the very drab room just to take it all in. Yes, I know people don’t usually ‘take it all in’ when they are in plain, boring, or stressful places or situations. But I liked to learn everything I could about…well, everything. Unlike many people I had known, the more I learnt of the world, the more it fascinated me. Didn’t change the fact that I would rather watch from behind a window or a book than actually interact with any of it, but I found it endlessly intriguing anyway. 

In my gathering of information, there was one place I very deliberately did not look. The mirror. The longer I sat there, the more I suspected I was being watched and assessed, and I did not wish to look anywhere he might be. It was ridiculous, I knew, but even that level of interaction with a stranger—even one I could not see—made me feel uncomfortable. I put my hands in my lap and found myself pulling my shoulders forward and in, as if I were trying to fold in upon myself. Which I suppose I might have been. 

With my hands in my lap, I couldn’t resist feeling the underside of the table. Ever seeking new information. Old chewing gum, of course. That seems to be on the underside of every surface that regular people have been, ever. I wondered idly if they ever found old chewing gum on the undersides of tables or potsherds in archaeological digs. I also felt large and sturdy rings welded to the table. Probably where potentially dangerous criminals being questioned could be manacled. It felt good, learning something new, no matter how irrelevant. It helped me feel more calm. 

The door opened then and I looked up to see Mr Holmes walk into the room. As I had been suspecting. He wasn’t actually as tall as he sometimes seemed in pictures—yes, I read the papers—but the long, dark coat he wore did make him seem a bit taller. And rather commanding, especially with the collar turned up. I supposed he knew precisely that effect and used it frequently to his advantage.

His questioning was brief but intense, and seemed to have nothing to do with the case whatsoever. Quite different from his seeming politeness the evening before. It set me immediately on edge and wary, particularly when he was able to easily read so much about me from what he could observe. I hadn’t met many—perhaps not anyone—who could do so with such speed, breadth, and accuracy. So I found myself resistant to give the answers to his questions in the way I knew he wanted. After only a few minutes he left in obvious exasperation.

I showed a terrible weakness then. Perhaps it was pride, or merely irritation, but I looked up to the mirror where I knew Dr Watson must be and told him exactly what I had seen and how I felt about his friend. I did it quickly, as I knew it would only take seconds for Mr Holmes to reach that room. And I immediately regretted it.

Really, Emma? All of that effort to avoid catering to his demands and here you are, spouting off exactly what he was asking for! I very much needed to learn to control my tongue.

When Mr Holmes returned, his manner was far softer. While I didn’t overtly trust it, I had to admit that my bristly, reactive thoughts diminished considerably. It allowed me to contemplate many things, including more of his features (he played a string instrument, probably the violin, but he had hands that would have been marvellous on the piano), and the apparent influence Dr Watson had on him, since he had obviously convinced him to try the gentler approach. Mr Holmes didn’t seem like the type of personality to take the advice of others easily. 

But when he asked me to assist in the investigation, I nearly laughed out loud. How could he ask such a thing? Not only would such interactions be personally impossible, and my investigative abilities near non-existent, but it had to be very strictly against the rules. He tried multiple times to convince me, both assuring me of the safety of it and trying to tempt me with the stimulation. But I was resolute. 

But when he asked me the simple question of, ‘why not?’ I was thrown a little. Such a simple question, yet so much behind it. So, cursing his new approach for softening my resolve to be taciturn, I answered him. This led to a series of deductions on both our parts, psychological more than physical. And, to my surprise, it made me realise that we weren’t so very different from each other. I hid from people. He pushed them away.

But in my analysis of him, I hit a nerve. He stared at me for a number of moments. Then, without a word, he got up and strode from the room, shutting the door definitively behind him. 

With his departure, I felt myself on the verge of physical and emotional collapse with relief. So much social interaction with an unknown element was incredibly draining. But I hoped that, perhaps now, finally, someone would come to tell me I could go home.

It was a horribly long number of minutes before the door opened again. I did not look up, but from my peripheral vision I saw Dr Watson enter the room and sit across from me. I wanted to throw my hands up with frustration, but I refrained.

He repeated the request for my joining the investigation. I repeated my objections. But then he said something interesting: that he thought I was good for Mr Holmes. This was interesting in many ways. He apparently cared enough about his friend to break rules and laws, even to bring in a veritable stranger in the misguided hope that I could somehow be beneficial for him personally. But I knew better. I was not that good a person, nor that capable, and I told him so. 

His look then was of such a level of disappointment that I felt sad and ashamed. But while my resolve against rendering assistance for altruistic reasons weakened, my fear of overwhelming myself too soon did not. I could not concede. I could not. But I could not refuse aloud again, so I remained silent. After a few moments he took a deep breath, got up, and started walking towards the door. Then he stopped and turned to me.

“You said earlier that you have a tendency to be content without growth. That you run from people and reality. And that it is how we fight our weaknesses that defines us.”

Hearing my words chimed back at me made them sound incredibly harsh, or hollow. I felt more shame and regret. 

“Yes, I did say that.”

“Well, you have a choice now. Shall you fight your weaknesses?”

Ah. So this was strength of the great, secret, Dr Watson. I felt the edges of my mouth turn up in a little smile. 

“And they say that Sherlock is the smart one.”

I turned back to the table in silence. I most heartily did not wish to be moved. My fear was comfortable and familiar. And there were proscriptions against such things for a reason. They were asking me to go well and above even an average person’s purview, let alone mine. But the few seconds before the doctor left the room made me feel more and more guilty. 

I don’t know how long I sat there. I think it was quite a while. Pondering and debating with myself. After a while, though, I realised no one was coming back either to ask me more questions  or tell me I could go. I had been forgotten. I was relieved, but also…a little sad. 

I got up and left the room to see loyal, faithful Colin still sitting on the bench. He stood when he saw me.

“Good Lord, Emma, you were in there forever!” I must have looked as drained as I felt, because his look changed to worry. “Are you all right? What happened in there? I don’t think they ever intended to question me at all.”

I smiled wryly. “No, I don’t believe they did.” There was a pause while Colin grabbed our coats and helped me on with mine.

“Well?”

I knew he was referring to the question he had asked earlier, but as I did not wish to answer it, I played coy. “Well what?”

“What happened in there, Emma?”

I sighed. “They asked me to join in the investigation.”

“Who did?”

“Mr Holmes. And then Dr Watson.”

“Aren’t there rules against that sort of thing?”

“I’m sure there are. It would be all levels of injurious to a case to have witnesses involved in the subsequent investigation, I am sure.”

There was another moment’s silence while he put on his coat, but really, I knew he was formulating more questions that I knew I would not wish to answer. I just wanted to go home and forget any of this ever happened.

“So, what did you say?”

I scoffed. “I said no, of course.”

“Oh.” 

He tried to hide it, and the change in his expression was minuscule, but I saw it. Disappointment. And I remembered the job offer. Between him and John Watson, it was too much shame for one day. 

“Do you think I could do it?”

“I think if you put your mind to it, you not only could do it, but do it splendidly. You’d be able to learn things you couldn’t learn from a book. You might even have a little fun.”

I paused. If I were going to change my mind, I wanted to make him realise it was out of respect for his opinion. “Perhaps I was a bit hasty in my refusal.”

There it was. That brightening of his eyes, the subtle lifting of the muscles in his face. There were still obstacles, however.

“The offer was rescinded, though. I think I may have even offended Mr Holmes.”

“You?” The single word was spoken with such incredulity that I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered that he thought I was so kind, or offended that he thought me incapable of having a contradictory opinion and actually stating it strongly enough to cause ire. 

“We could ask.”

The decision was agonising, so, without meaning to, I groaned. 

“Emma?”

“Very well. We can ask. If the offer no longer stands, then we can go home?”

“Of course. But I think it should be  you who asks. If you’re going to be interacting with others, you’re going to need to be able to at least interact with the people you will be working with.”

I whimpered. He knew all too well that when I said ‘we’ would do something, I usually meant ‘he’ would do it, or at least be the front man. He was calling me on it, but what made it worse was that I knew he was right.

“Emma, I will still be there to support you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

By which I knew he at least partially meant he would be there to make sure I actually went through with it. Still, I knew he would always be supportive of me. Always.

I was so uncomfortable that I had trouble standing still. My fingers fidgeted. I shifted my weight from foot to foot. Every inch of me felt so tortured that everything wanted to move at once. 

“Very well.”

He smiled and held out his elbow. I took it after a moment’s hesitation, and we walked towards the large room filled with desks and people. At the far end, Dr Watson and Mr Holmes were speaking with Detective Inspector Lestrade. Colin headed right for them. It felt like he was going rather more quickly than normal, and with every step my instinct to turn around and walk out quickly grew stronger. 

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

He patted my hand. “No, you’ll be fine, Emma. You’ll see.”

“No, really, I’ve changed my mind again.”

He resisted all my subtle tugs at his arm. 

“Emma, this will be good for you. You know that.”

“I think I’m going to faint.”

“No, you aren’t.”

His smile was particularly determined. The only other thing that escaped my lips was a small whimper and then we were there.

The three of them looked at me. The Detective Inspector’s face was quizzical enough that I don’t think he had been informed of any of this. I was trying to get up the courage. Really, I was. I was just taking so long that Colin finally tugged discretely on my arm. I gulped, cleared my throat, and said in a far too feeble voice, “Excuse me?”

Lestrade smiled at me, though the confusion was still there. “Yes, Miss Bedingfield?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if the invitation to assist in the investigation still stands. And I would like Colin to be able to join us as well.”

DI Lestrade turned to Sherlock, the confusion turning to annoyance and more than a little ire. “What’s this?”

Sherlock completely ignored him, and after staring at me for a long moment, answered, “Yes.”

Lestrade was very flustered, shaking his head in protest. “Of course it isn’t! Such an invitation should never have been given. Witnesses can’t join in on investigations. Normal citizens shouldn’t even be joining in on investigations.” He glared at Sherlock, who continued to ignore him and kept staring at me. Trying to decide what had changed, no doubt. But really, all that concerned me at the moment was trying not to pass out or throw up.

“Don’t listen to him. The offer still stands.” 

Lestrade threw his hands into the air. “Am I not still in charge?  You cannot take a witness on a bloody investigation!”

Sherlock turned his head towards Lestrade and they exchanged glares. Then he turned back towards me, gave a tight little smile, said “Excuse me,” and pulled Lestrade into the office behind, which apparently belonged to the Detective Inspector. 

The office had a lot of windows, so the brief, heated exchange was visible for all to see. But then Sherlock leaned forward and said something quiet and intense, and Lestrade dropped his head in resignation. They came back out and Sherlock was all smiles.

“As I said, the offer still stands.”

Lestrade just gave his blessing by sort of nodding and waving his hand without making eye contact with anyone. He didn’t want to allow it, but apparently he felt he didn’t have much choice.

The doctor, who had been looking expectantly between everyone throughout the entire exchange, gave a small smile. “Well, glad that’s settled. Where shall we off to first?”

My knees buckled and if Colin hadn’t been holding on to me I would have fallen to the floor. 

“A chair for Emma would be the first order of business, I believe,” said Colin.

  



	6. Chapter 6 (John Watson POV)

I quickly grabbed a chair for Miss Bedingfield, who had gone quite pale, and she slumped into it with rather less decorum than one would usually expect from someone so petite and proper. 

I crouched in front of her. 

“Perhaps you should put your head between your knees.”

She shook her head with as much strength as she could muster under the circumstances. “No, I’ll be fine. Just a touch of…anxiety.” Her torso bent forward to allow her head to drop between her knees. 

I looked toward Mr Gidney. “Does this happen often?”

“She doesn’t go out often and she interacts with people even less, so, no.”

“I didn’t realise she had this level of social anxiety. Sherlock, are you sure—”

He was looking at her with that pondering air that he reserved for special occasions. “Yes, I’m quite sure. Now, if we could hurry this along; I haven’t got all day.”

I stood and pulled Sherlock a couple of metres away, then got in his face. “Are you serious?” I hissed. “The young lady nearly fainted. Even if she could just jump up and run about with us this very moment, she may not be as helpful in the investigation as you are hoping.”

His eyebrows went up just enough to show that he found the whole thing terribly interesting. “Well, we’ll find out about all of that soon enough, won’t we?”

Miss Bedingfield had sat back up and seemed to be regaining a bit of colour. She was now trying to tame her dark ginger hair, which had become a bit more wild from being upended. Mr Gidney had fetched a glass of water for her, but the fact that he was standing instead of crouching next to her told me he felt the crisis was over. 

Sherlock crouched in front of her now. Apparently he was going to try the ‘nice’ approach again. Though how he thought she would believe it after he had shown his impatience not thirty seconds earlier, I did not know. 

“Miss Bedingfield, are you feeling better?”

She nodded. No talking. I was beginning to think the more nervous she was, the less she spoke. 

Sherlock put a hand on her shoulder. “Let us know if you are unable to continue. Would you be up to discussing how we shall proceed with the investigation?” She paused, and then nodded again. 

It was actually discomforting to see Sherlock being so nice to a stranger such as this woman was. It was so…unlike him. It did not help that I knew he had to be doing it to manipulate and coerce Miss Bedingfield into doing as he wished her to. I knew his history. I knew how he worked. And his abrupt change in the interrogation room earlier, right after I had suggested he try kindness, had been transparent. 

Sherlock stood and pointed back towards the interrogation rooms. “I think the room where we were before would be the best place to discuss how we are to begin. Would you be amenable to that?”

She nodded again. She was regaining more of her composure, and I suspected she would not be nearly so compliant once she had fully recovered. 

Mr Gidney held out an arm to her, which she took and stood. They walked towards the interrogation room, with Sherlock and I right behind. She was no longer unsteady, and after a taking a deep breath it was almost as if nothing had happened whatsoever. 

After hanging up coats—even Sherlock removed his, another sign that he was trying to be less intimidating—we went into the room and sat around the table. Sherlock immediately began discussing the case. No small talk there.

“Of course, most murders are familial. While the manner of death suggests it may have been motivated by something else, we must at least pursue that avenue of investigation. So some of us should go to MacIntosh’s London residence to question his widow and household staff. Then there is the monetary angle. That requires a lot of tedious gathering of financial information, so Lestrade will be gathering that while we do more of the initial legwork, and we can go over that later if we need to. Then, of course, since he was a member of Parliament, and a Scottish one at that, he probably received a great number of threats, both here and in Edinburgh. The other two should go to Westminster to look over his correspondence.”

“Which one would involve less interaction?” asked Emma.

“I’m sorry?”

“She means, which one would require talking to people less.” Colin interpreted. 

“Most likely the MacIntosh flat. But I believe Mr Gidney would be most useful at Westminster, as there will be computer details to deal with, and that seems to be his area of expertise.”

Colin visibly bristled. “You  researched me?”

“Of course I did. I needed to eliminate the two of you as suspects, and I further couldn’t ask you to assist in an investigation without ascertaining your histories.” With the explanation, Colin’s posture relaxed again. I was impressed. He wasn’t just going to follow along blindly with any suggestion or order, but he was readily willing to listen to reason. 

“I could go with Colin to Westminster, if you don’t mind.”

“Actually, I was thinking that since the two of you are so new to criminal investigation, that perhaps John should go with Mr Gidney to Westminster and you should come with me.”

She paled and moved to put her head between her knees again, hitting her forehead on the edge of the table in the process. Everyone got up to see if she was okay. 

“I’m quite all right,” came her muffled reply from below the table, “But are you sure about that plan?”

Sherlock, still looking over the table and down at her back, let half his mouth turn up in a smile. “Oh, I’m sure it will be quite all right. He had no children, so only a quick questioning of his wife and perhaps four or five household servants and it will be over. I think it would be easier on you than enduring the bustle of Parliament.”

She paused long enough that I thought she may have actually passed out. But then she surprised me. “Very well, I will accompany you to their flat.” 

Now it was Colin’s turn to react, and he was shaking his head with an emphatic no. I don’t know how she could tell he was doing it with her head under the table, but she responded as though she were sitting at the table watching him.

“Colin, it will be fine. We will only be questioning a few people and I can handle that. You needn’t worry.”

Colin pulled a piece of paper and a small pencil from his breast pocket and scrawled a quick note.

“Please stop writing them notes! I can hear the pencil on the table!” 

I couldn’t help but smirk at her muffled but stern request. Colin gave a small sigh, finished the note, and passed it to me.

I am worried, of course, but she can do it. Thank you for asking her, but call me if there are any troubles. 

He ended the note with his mobile number, which I quickly entered into my phone. I debated whether I should pass the note to Sherlock, but then I realised he was looking over my shoulder at it anyway. 

Colin put his hand gently on her back. “Very well, Emma, I will go to Westminster and you can go to the flat. But I would feel more comfortable about it if you could sit up and join us.”

She sat up rather abruptly. Or tried to. She hit her head again on the way up, so when she had straightened fully, she was wincing and had her left hand on the back of her head while the fingertips from her right hand were rubbing her forehead. It didn’t slow her down, though. She looked straight at Mr Gidney and with utmost sincerity, said, “Thank you.”

She turned back to Sherlock and I, still rubbing her head. “And you, Mr Holmes, can stop smirking when you think I’m not looking. My peripheral vision works perfectly well.”

He let his smirk turn into a full grin before he managed to repress it. “So sorry, Miss Bedingfield. But do please call me Sherlock.”

She paused rubbing her head to glare at him. His grin managed to escape again, though to his credit it seemed a bit smaller and more sincere this time. 

“I would ask that you do all the talking. I will do my best to observe, but as you have seen, interactions are not my forte.”

That idea, of course, worried me. Even with myself there, Sherlock could be incredibly abrasive and rude, but I knew him and would call him on it or be able to smooth things over. Somewhat. 

“That idea worries you, doctor. Is he really so unpersonable on a regular basis?”

I hadn’t realised my trepidation had been showing so clearly on my face. “Well…yes.”

Her eyes looked back towards Sherlock. “Could you behave yourself this time, then? Otherwise I shall be forced to either pass out or throw up and completely ruin your investigative reputation.”

His smile continued. “While my investigative reputation has endured far worse, I shall try my hardest to be as pleasant as the morning sun.”

She had stopped rubbing the back of her head and was now trying to tame her curly hair again. “Surely someone of your prodigious talent could do better than simply trying. You seem to be enough of a consummate actor to handle an hour or two of pleasantries without too much effort.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrow lifted, but he maintained his smile. “Very well, I will be on my best behaviour.”

“Then we shouldn’t have any trouble.”

Oh, I was warming to this woman. She seemed to be already becoming more comfortable with us, and managed to call Sherlock on his current actions while cautioning him about future ones. I already wanted to introduce her to Mary.

Mr Gidney released a deep breath. “Now that that’s settled, and we know where we are going, is there anything else we should be looking for?”

“John knows what is needed. I will be available via phone if any questions arise.”

Mr Gidney turned to me. “Dr Watson, I have a car if you would prefer that to taking a cab.”

I smiled at him and held out my hand, which he shook with a strong grip. “John, please. Never hurts to save the fare.”

“Please, call me Colin.”


	7. Chapter 7 (Emma POV)

Colin was able to walk me out of the building, but after that I knew we would have to part ways for a time. I wasn’t happy about it. It was, I realised, the first time I had been out of my residence without some descendant of Sarah’s with me for over a hundred years. And, reluctantly, I thought that maybe, just maybe, that had been a little too long. 

Just before we parted on the sidewalk, Colin patted my hand. He was nervous, as was I, but we were both putting on a good show for the other. He whispered, “It will be fine, Emma. Everything will be fine.” I knew he was saying it as much for himself as for me. I nodded and patted his hand in response.

He let my arm go. Actually, he had to sort of pry my fingers from his arm, but then he stepped away, smiled and waved, and walked away with Dr Watson.

That left me with Mr Holmes. I couldn’t really say I was ‘alone’ with him, because I was far too aware of the dozens of people constantly passing us on the sidewalk. I was glad that Mr Holmes was the one trying to hail a cab, but I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with everyone else milling about. It felt like forever that I debated how to control my anxiety, ending with a reluctant few steps to narrow the distance between myself and Mr Holmes. While I didn’t know him well, I certainly knew him better than everyone else on the sidewalk, and being close to anything remotely familiar would help reduce my anxiety.

He didn’t seem to notice my presence, which was a relief. I found myself tempted to take his arm as I always had with Colin and his predecessors, but I quickly repressed that instinct. When the cab arrived, I was somewhat surprised that he opened the door and held it for me. 

“Thank you,” I said quickly, avoiding eye contact as I climbed into the cab. He closed the door after me and within moments had entered on the other side. He gave the cabbie the address and sat back, looking out the window. 

The cab ride to MacIntosh’s pied-à-terre was over twenty-five minutes. The first seventeen were blissfully silent. I watched out the window, noting how much London had changed over the years. Behind the windows of the cab, I felt more safe, and I was actually enjoying updating my mental catalogue of the city I had spent so much time in. I knew it was illogical, but any sort of barrier—transparent, thin, even simply mental—between me and other people helped. But even with those barriers, and being with Colin and his family, the area which I felt comfortable visiting had grown smaller and smaller each passing year. The fear of going out always seemed to win over the intrigue of the open world, and the more I gave in to the fear, the stronger it had become. 

MacIntosh’s temporary residence was in an area I hadn’t seen since before the second World War, so I had little idea what to expect. But as the cab moved forward, I found the interest and thrill of all the new information—something I had avoided for so long—overpowering even my bitter anxieties. 

“You seem to be feeling a bit better.”

When he said that, I realised that much of the anxiety and tension in my face and body had dissipated. The calm, secluded interior of the cab, as well as the stimulation from the drive, had helped tremendously.

“Yes, thank you. Watching from inside the cab seems to help.”

“We will be arriving at Charles MacIntosh’s mansion flat in just a few minutes. Have you shored yourself up enough to do this?”

I realised that he may have been silent to allow me to collect myself. Rather more prescient of him than I had expected.

“I believe so. What is it I should do, exactly?”

“I will be asking questions, but if you could observe the area and look for any other items of significance, it could be advantageous.”

I was curious. “Why are you being so patient with me? From everything I have heard and seen, that does not seem to be your nature.”

He gave a tight smile. “It isn’t. But it appears to have worked better than my usual approach.”

I could say nothing to that. A different form of manipulation. I should not have been surprised. One thing continued to puzzle me, however.

“Very well. But why did you want me along in the first place? Surely this case is below your usual fare in required skill. You shouldn’t want for anyone along with you, let alone a socially disabled amateur such as myself.”

Part of his mouth lifted in the smallest grin, and he gave me a sidelong glance. “You give yourself far too little credit. I have found your observations…refreshing.”

“And how would that be? Surely I have seen nothing you had not.”

He gave a single nod. “Perhaps. It is having someone about who is not a sociopath, yet can still observe, which is refreshing.”

“You don’t see many others?”

“No.”

I was trying to decide whether or not to be flattered when the cab pulled up to the mansion flat. It was a nice, large stone building with a well-kept garden and more cars parked around it than I would have expected for a residential area this time of day. Even though I should have had no preconceptions about the area, this fact tickled in my mind persistently, keeping me distracted until Sherlock had opened my door. 

“We may have to alter the original plan,” he stated blandly. 

I got out of the cab and looked again at the building and noticed quite a lot of people milling about.

“Oh dear. People offering condolences?”

“I have little doubt. More information for us. Follow my lead.” He held out his elbow to me, and, made nervous by the unexpected crowd, I took it without thinking. 

As we neared the flat, it became more obvious that, indeed, the crowd was going to the same flat we were headed towards. I wished to back out, but I dared not tug on Mr Holmes’ arm as I had with Colin’s. To be honest, the closer we were to the door, the more I regretted having taken his arm. But as it would have been rude to let it go, I persevered, though I panicked internally over the thought of mingling with the crowd.

When we only a few feet from the door, traffic slowed considerably. There was a tearful woman, Mrs MacIntosh I was sure, greeting people at the door. Seeing her, and knowing what had happened to her husband less than twenty-four hours previous, made my chest tighten with grief. Not just for her, but for the memories it dredged up of someone I had lost long ago.

She was pretty, particularly for being in her late forties. I suspected her blond hair had very recently come from a salon—neat, but far too perfect. She wore sharp grey trousers and a black blouse and was very fit. There seemed to be genuine respect and kindness between her and the other mourners, which spoke well of her character.

The people coming to offer condolences were not as I had expected for an MP. Instead of austere men in expensive suits, the people seemed mostly to be of a more common variety, dressed more casually and seeming less persnickety of their general appearance. I also noticed an unusual amount of black and red. Black would have been expected for the occasion. But I saw it far too often put together with red on many of the shirts there, like it represented something important to most of the guests—which meant it had probably been important to MacIntosh as well. When we were at the door, I could see well enough into the flat to notice trophies, pictures, memorabilia. MacIntosh was a sport enthusiast. Enough so that a large percentage of his friends were as well, indicating the colours probably belonged to a favourite team. 

This engrossed me enough that when Sherlock addressed the widow, his voice, which seemed to be on the verge of tears, quite startled me. 

“Mrs MacIntosh, I was so sorry to hear about Charlie. Dreadful thing, isn’t it? I don’t know if he ever mentioned me. I’m Beck Minett, and this is my wife, Emma.”

It was horribly difficult hiding my shock, and it took me a moment to give her what I hoped was a conciliatory smile. I felt I should have also expressed my sorrow for her loss, but at that point I could not manage it. Still, she smiled sadly back at both of us, dabbed away a tear, and motioned us inside. 

The flat was such a bustle of activity, with mourners standing about reminiscing about the dearly departed with each other and servants wearing black armbands—apparently this was not a planned function—that I was denied the opportunity to express my ire to Sherlock. Which only vexed me more. I had to, therefore, work on calming myself down.  Nothing to be done for it, Emma. Deal with what you have.

There were many people there, most of them men. Many of them smiled and nodded sadly at us. Far too many. My anxiety was beginning to rise.

Calm down! This is an act. All an act. Hide behind the role. Hide behind it to observe, as you would behind one of your era ensembles or a window.

That thought, cool and clear, began to work almost immediately. I was not Emma Bedingfield. I was Emma Minett, friend to Charles MacIntosh, here to mourn his passing. Emma Minett was not afraid of people. She was friendly, gregarious even. Yes, I could hide behind her. Hide and observe. 

Immediately, I found my breathing slowing back to normal, my pulse calming down, and my muscles relaxing just a bit. I was able to smile sadly and nod in response to the silent greetings given to me. After a few more minutes, I was able to express sorrow through simple words and tears welling in my eyes. 

I was trying not to pay much attention to Sherlock—I was still rather upset with him—but I couldn’t help but notice that he kept giving me sidelong glances, as though he were contemplating what had brought about the change. Part of me wanted to snap at him for dragging me into this unprepared. But most of me was too terrified that my facade would falter and I would crumble, or that I would make some abominable blunder and destroy the investigation. 

So I put more effort into focusing on my facade and the settings and people around me. Most of their mourning was sincere. It seemed that MacIntosh had been everyone’s best mate, particularly when it came to sport, especially rugby. 

But there were a few who seemed to be there more out of a sense of obligation than true mourning. I could not for the life of me find anything connecting them to each other. Some of them were exceptionally fit and rugged, obviously not just sport enthusiasts but probably players as well. Perhaps even professionally at one point or another. Some were older, of only moderate fitness level, dressed in sport coats or full suit and tie. Some worked for the same organisation, but most did not. Some were from Scotland, some were not. Many of them most likely had some sort of professional interest and didn’t actually know or care about MacIntosh terribly much, though of course no one would confess to such a callous reason for being there. 

After a number of minutes, however, the reason for some of the surliness became abundantly clear. It happened as I was casually asking someone’s wife if she knew who one of the ‘obligatory’ mourners was.

“That’s Leslie Meston. I’m surprised he even had the audacity to show up here.” At my confused look, she lowered her head towards me with relish and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Oh, you didn’t hear about the row last month? It was awful. McAlexander will probably never play again. Harwood was jailed and lost his job, poor man. Meston has been absolutely livid about the whole thing, since he owns the club McAlexander was on. Blamed Charlie for most of it. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he were somehow behind the murder. He certainly holds sway over enough athletes to find someone willing and able to do the deed.”

“Oh, that  is simply terrible! What reason could he have for showing up?”

She took another sip of her drink. “Probably to look less guilty. Or rub it in Christi’s face. Or both. You never know with those posh team owners. They think they run the world.”

Interesting. Her diction and dress indicated more of a middle class, probably one of the sport or pub friends, so that may have produced some bias against a particularly rich and influential person, but her observation had to be at least rooted in truth and verifiable easily enough. I thanked the woman and turned back to the room.

A servant had taken over door greeting duties, which seemed to have slowed down considerably. Christi MacIntosh was now mingling, spending a little more time being properly consoled by friends. She seemed like a genuinely nice person, in very real mourning, with many people who actually cared about her. I couldn’t help but wonder what that must be like. Having a room full of friends, rather than a crowd of people who intimidated and frightened you. 

“I’ve finished reading the room. You?”

Sherlock had again startled me out of my reverie. I nodded. 

“We should have a private conference with Mrs MacIntosh.” He began to walk towards her, but I resisted.

“Shouldn’t we let her finish speaking with her guests first?”

Sherlock looked at me oddly. “Why?”

I looked back at him and realised he either honestly didn’t understand or he had left caring so far behind that it didn’t matter if he understood or not. What an interesting mental gap. While I was definitely socially inept, even I could recognise a social need in someone else and respect that. “She’s hardly had a chance to talk to them, and she seems to need a bit of cheering. And it would raise suspicions if we pulled her from her guests so soon.”

He gave a small sigh and turned back to watch her again, cocking one eyebrow. “I suppose we can wait a few more minutes.”

A space cleared on one of the couches and Sherlock steered us towards it. I was grateful to have a rest and be able to let go of his arm. I’m sure he was grateful for the reprieve as well, especially since I knew I had clenched my grip multiple times out of reflex. To consistently hold the arm of a person whom you hardly knew was difficult. For someone terrified of human interaction paired with a sociopath, it was far worse. 

“There have been thirteen people here with guilty consciences, three of them probably related to that row you were told about, but a number for other reasons.”

“Yes.” I wondered why he was telling me this. 

“Four affairs, though one man is having one with a woman and with a man separately. Why would anyone bother with something that would take that much work? At any rate, those cover another seven. And one woman who is trying to make off with more silverware than she came in with. That leaves three.” 

“Are you trying to show off? Because I can do basic math.”

His eyes moved to look down at me. “I’m used to John. I explain what I observe and he is overly impressed. We are very comfortable with the ritual.”

Half of my mouth actually turned up in an unexpected grin. “Ritual is something I understand far too well. Carry on.”

“Christi MacIntosh is too upset and shocked to be a suspect. But she should know something about the three remaining guilty parties.”

“That was amazing! Stunning, really.” I paused. “Did I perform the ritual correctly?”

“Seemed rather forced. Needs more enthusiasm next time.”

I grunted. “I will attempt to improve.”

We waited another few minutes in silence, until the crowd began to thin and Mrs MacIntosh sat wearily in an armchair across the room. Then Sherlock arose, and I followed suit. He didn’t extend his arm to me again, but I hardly noticed. I was enough ‘into character’ now that it felt unnecessarily awkward. We both walked towards her, though we still had to wait before the last guest finished her goodbyes.

However, this one did not look like she would be done quickly. I had noticed her the entire time we had been there: weepy, wringing her hands, bottom lip trembling. Rather pretty, with long, pale ginger hair that had been meticulously straightened. She had been wearing an average amount of cosmetics at the beginning of the visit, but most of them had been cleared away through tears and tissues by that point. She seemed around Christi MacIntosh’s age, so I guessed they were good friends and she was feeling all sorts of sympathy for her friend’s terrible loss. 

When she had Christi’s undivided attention, she burst into a full show of tears, which prompted Mrs MacIntosh to do the same, and the two embraced and sobbed into each others’ well-set hair for a number of minutes. Then they exchanged blubbering condolences and thanks and other tidbits to each other for a few more minutes. 

I have to admit, I stopped paying attention to what they were saying to each other after the first four minutes, and after the first seven, I was sorely tempted to think about, possibly, considering telling her that we understood she was sorry for her friend’s loss, but could we move on, please? 

Sherlock had even less patience than I, and tried to approach them or break it up on no less than three occasions. The first time I wasn’t expecting it and he had already taken a step forward to split the two apart, but I realised what he was doing in time to put my hand on his sleeve and pull him back. He turned to me with exasperation.

“What are you doing?” He said it more loudly than I felt comfortable with, so I made a point to whisper—though it was really more of a hiss.

“She is  not. Done.”

He rolled his eyes, but replied in a whisper himself. “There is only one left, and she is being abominably tedious.”

At this point it didn’t matter that I agreed with him or that I hardly knew him. I was deep into my role and as such I must be more familiar with him, and prevent him from embarrassing us both. “That doesn’t matter. Abominable rudeness is not an appropriate reaction to abominable tedium.”

His eyebrow cocked. He was surprised at my sudden temerity. But I had no patience to explain either why I had become more bold, nor to confront him for forcing it upon me. I didn’t even pause to consider that his listening to me at all might be an exception perpetrated to keep my reactions in check.

He said nothing more, but ceased to move forward until Mrs MacIntosh was alone. 

As we waited, more and more of the flat cleared out, and the servants began cleaning up the leftover water glasses and any stray tissues that had been left lying about. The more empty the room became, the more I felt the tension leave my shoulders, my neck, my head, my back, until by the time the crying woman left, I was feeling quite at ease. 

Mrs MacIntosh turned to us with an apologetic smile, though I could tell she was quite spent. 

“The Minetts, was it?”

“You have a remarkable memory, Mrs MacIntosh.” Sherlock’s compliment was sincere, which pleased me. Well, perhaps  relieved would be a more accurate term. 

“Yes, it comes in rather handy when one is married to a Member of Parliament. Or, was….”

I was afraid this may turn into another crying jag, so I hurriedly said, “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs MacIntosh. I didn’t know him well, but I have heard marvellous things about your husband.” I was trying to say everything in soothing tones, but then Sherlock blasted away all attempts at sympathy with his blunt words. 

“Actually we didn’t know him at all. We aren’t the Minetts. I am Sherlock Holmes. This is my colleague Emma Bedingfield. We are investigating your husband’s murder.”

She looked at him with a gasp, but after a flustered moment, calmed down somewhat, though she still seemed irritated.

“So you were actually here…investigating?”

A bit irritated at Sherlock’s lack of decorum, I answered quickly. “Yes, though I am terribly sorry we could not be upfront with you from the start. We had not expected there to be such a crowd here, and could not deny ourselves the opportunity to observe so many of his acquaintances in a less…obtrusive fashion.”

She blinked, looked at me, and nodded her head slowly. “Yes. Yes, that makes sense, then. I am glad you told me now, and it was actually fortuitous that you showed up when you did. Word got around that I would be home this last hour so our friends and family decided to stop by, apparently all at once. So I am glad, as that gave a chance to look around.”

I was rather surprised at her quick embrace of our surreptitious intrusion to a somewhat personal event. “And why would you be…glad of that, Mrs MacIntosh?”

She looked at me with a touch of surprise. “Well, so that you could get an idea of who did this to Charlie! Not everyone here were his friends, you know.” Her previous sorrow was now being overtaken by rage, though I could tell it was not directed at us. “The detectives last night told me there had been no real signs of a struggle. Charlie was to meet me at the Royal Academy for the ball not long after…after he was killed. He had told me he was going to be at the Icebar and then walk to the Academy in time to be there a little early. He  loves to dance. Loved. He loved that being an MP gave him opportunities for all sorts of balls in connection with fundraisers and official functions. So he wouldn’t have just wandered off down some random side street to be murdered by some random thief. No, someone that he knew must have lured him there.”

Sherlock went from bored to a bit too obviously excited. “Yes, Mrs MacIntosh, and who would have had reason to do that?”

She blinked at him. “I certainly don’t know. Isn’t that what you were poking around for?”

His disappointment and annoyance were as painfully clear as his excitement had been. I hurried to try to fill in the communication gap before he said something we would all regret. 

“I believe what he was asking was if there were any threats to Mr MacIntosh that you were aware of. Any rows, disagreements, troubles that you had seen or he had told you about?”

“Of course not! Everyone loved Charlie! I mean, there were the club differences—everyone has their favourite sport club—and the normal irate constituents that just come part and parcel with being an MP. And then there was that row at Stonebridge last month. That was a bit of unpleasant business. But everyone loved Charlie! There had to be one of them just  pretending that he loved him, long enough to lop off his head.”

So, everyone loved him, except for the person just pretending to love him while hating him so much they wished to decapitate him? I believe I was thinking about it too hard, because it started to make my head hurt. 

Sherlock, however, seemed used to this sort of thing, though he did sigh with impatient annoyance before he said anything. “There were six people here with guilty consciences, reasons for which were possibly related to your husband’s death. Three, I assume, had to do with the Stonebridge brawl, but aside from Leslie Meston, I do not know them by sight. The other three I could not discern the reasons for their guilt. If I describe the five, could you tell me who they are?”

She sniffed and nodded. 

“A man in his late thirties, short black hair, tan complexion, rather short and stocky, but fit. Wearing a polo shirt and nice trousers.”

“That would be Duncan Harwood. He’s the referee who made the bad call that started the whole thing at Stonebridge. Lost his job after that, though with the call he made, he shouldn’t have been a referee in the first place.”

“The next, a tall, lanky fellow with light brown hair trimmed short and neat. A man of money, dressed in an expensive suit and having an air of entitlement. Didn’t fraternise much with anyone else. American.”

Her brow wrinkled as she looked away, searching her memory. “I don’t know him. Odd, I didn’t know Charlie knew any Americans .  He considered them rather uncivilised, what with their disdain for rugby and real football. Always said it was like they felt the reigning sports of the rest of the world weren’t good enough for them.”

Sherlock gave a tiny nod, paused, then resumed his list of suspicious characters. 

“A woman next. She had long, curly blond hair and a bit too much eye makeup, rather tasteless considering she’s an aristocrat. Was wearing a white blouse and a long blue skirt. Kept checking her nails.”

Mrs MacIntosh looked a little confused. “That was Edina Mattix. She’s always been very kind to us. Very odd that you would consider her suspicious. She’s from money, yes, but she has earned a lot more through clever work in real estate. She’s even helped Charlie on some deals both for Parliament and the SRU. Good sort of woman.”

“SRU?”

“The Scottish Rugby Union. They are in charge of rugby union in Scotland, of course.”

“Of course.” You could tell he was uncomfortable with being ignorant of something relevant to a case, but he then moved on as though nothing had happened. “The next was an athlete, judging by his rugged build, though he walked with a limp. Short, black hair. Probably largely of Maori ancestry by complexion. Am I correct in assuming that was Payton Alexander?”

She blinked. “Yes, that’s Alexander. I thought you said you didn’t know him by sight?”

“I didn’t, but it was simple enough to deduce. Athletic, but with a relatively recent injury that would have ruined his sport career, and an uncomfortable air that indicated a poor relationship with the deceased. The only person who made sense.”

She nodded, obviously impressed. “He was badly injured in the row, practically destroyed his knee. He was young enough that he felt he had been robbed of a promising career. Blamed Charlie for the whole thing.” 

“The last was a tall, strong man, but not well-defined, so not a professional athlete. Bald. Surly. Construction worker. Drank a lot of water, so possibly diabetic.”

She again looked away, searching her memories. “No, can’t say as I know him either. I didn’t know all of Charlie’s friends, of course. Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

Sherlock looked at her for another moment, then stood. 

“Thank you for your time, Mrs MacIntosh. We’ll let you know when we catch the murderer.”

I had my own questions I had wished to ask, but apparently we were done. I tried to simply be satisfied that I wouldn’t have to speak any more, though it nagged at me. 

Mrs MacIntosh blinked and stood, though she seemed taken aback again from the abruptness of it all. “Um…yes…well, thank you. Good luck to you.”

“I don’t need luck,” said Sherlock. “Good day to you.” And with that, he turned and headed toward the door. I was somewhat flustered: feeling rude that we were leaving so suddenly and without courtesy, but not wishing to speak any more nor be left behind by Mr Holmes. So I simply gave Mrs MacIntosh another sympathetic smile and rushed after Mr Holmes. 

While he wasn’t nearly as tall as Colin, his legs were enough longer than mine that his long, quick strides would have left me far behind if I had not scurried. It made me wonder why I was there.

He called a cab as soon as he walked out the door, so I had a chance to catch up but we didn’t have to wait long on the pavement until it arrived. He was now absorbed in texting someone on his phone, seemingly entirely unaware of me. I was feeling more and more useless. I knew I had made mistakes in there. I was also very self-conscious that I had been posing as a friend of someone I didn’t know at all, and trying to fool his friends and family while in the role. I highly doubted I could have seen anything that Sherlock had not been able to discern. The thought ran pretty constantly through my mind:  Why did I agree to this? I have nothing to offer, and no one would want to hear me if I did.

When the cab arrived, I was surprised when Sherlock actually opened the door for me, as he was still engrossed by his phone. I accepted the offer and got in the cab, but my thank you was so reserved that I don’t think it was even audible. 

He directed the driver to take us to 221B Baker Street which was apparently Sherlock’s flat. He said we would be meeting Colin and Dr Watson there, but as I had not been consulted, or even previously informed, my qualms of my unimportance were further cemented. Sherlock began rattling off the results of the other branch of the investigation, but he didn’t even pull his eyes from his phone as he did so. He may as well have been talking to himself. 

“John says there weren’t any physical threat letters that seemed credible enough for this case, but they discovered that the system had been hacked. Your Mr Gidney was able to look into it some while they were there, and it appears to have been much like the trojan that took out the CCTV around the crime scene. A seemingly random pattern of emails were deleted from the system, primarily targeting MacIntosh’s account.”

It seemed particularly prescient that Colin had been there. I was sure he had been helpful, and I was very glad of it. He was able to use his skills in a productive way, rather than wasting them on fetching me sweets from the baker’s. I was very proud of my boy.

The moment of having a little less regret for having agreed to come, simply for Colin’s sake, faded quickly. The further we were from the  mansion flat, the more I realised how completely the stress and effort of the entire experience had sapped me, emotionally and physically. It made me irritable and my mood unhappy, but as Sherlock was at that point silent, I was able to pity myself in silence. That would change soon enough.


	8. Chapter 8 (John Watson POV)

Colin Gidney was not only an affable companion, but when we found that the servers at Westminster had been hacked, he was able to spring into action with an incredible amount of alacrity and expertise. And having become used to Sherlock, Colin’s ability to be brilliant while asking permission and remaining polite was almost shocking. 

He told me of everything he found as he found it, without any sort of condescension. It was…refreshing. His childlike excitement at seeing a piece of well-designed criminal work, however, was all too familiar.

It took a while to gather as much information as we could, and then even more to text the relevant information to Sherlock and answer his questions, but at last we felt we had gathered all we could and were able to leave. And I was all the more curious about these witnesses.

“That was quite impressive what you did in there.” As we walked down the steps outside Westminster, I was pleased that Colin seemed to make an effort to not leave me behind, though he was significantly taller than I was.

He shrugged. “I have a little expertise in computer security.”

“A little? That was not a ‘little.’ Were you formally educated or is it all self taught?”

“Some of both. Studied at Cambridge and MIT.”

“Really? If you don’t mind my asking, what is a graduate in computer security doing as a servant for an agoraphobic heiress?” 

He shrugged. “Familial duty. My family has been serving hers for generations. Don’t get me wrong, I love Emma and she is wonderfully flexible and kind as far as employers go. She…I mean, her family…even paid for most of my schooling. But when my parents were killed in a car accident a few years back, there was no one else to help her. And though she is brilliant and talented, she does not feel she does well enough on her own.”

“You don’t agree with that assessment?”

“I feel she can do anything she puts her mind to. She’s just so used to being frightened of everyone and told her skills are of no value that she vastly underestimates herself.”

“Sounds as though she had been in an abusive relationship.”

“You could say that, yes.”

“It is very kind of you to sacrifice so much for her.”

We reached the car then, so Gidney was able to avoid giving a verbal response. I detected a hint of sadness in his expression, though. 

Once we got into the car, I told him Sherlock asked that we meet back at Baker Street. He agreed, but not a thousand metres into the drive he asked, “Can we stop and get something? I’m starving.”

I thought it wouldn’t take long so I agreed, but then he took us well out of our way, to a tiny little restaurant themed like 1950’s America. 

“I thought you meant something on the way,” I said as we exited the car.

“Ah, yes, that would have made sense, but I  love this place.” 

“Really? Seems rather….”

“Unhealthy? Uncivilised? Too American? Yes, it’s all those things. But I developed a real taste for those cheeseburgers when I was studying in the States, and I sneak them in whenever I can.”

“Sneak them in?”

“Emma  hates cheeseburgers. Absolutely despises them. She even says that the  American yellow cheese is a crime against culinary taste everywhere. She can even smell when I’ve had one, though she doesn’t berate me about that so much anymore.”

I laughed. “I didn’t picture her as a fastidious eater. Do you cook for her as well? Does that make it difficult?”

He shook his head and made a face that said I had suggested something ludicrous. “Oh, no, I don’t cook. Emma would never stand for it. She is very easy going in most ways, but when it comes to food—no. She was so displeased with everyone else’s cooking that she became something of a top chef herself. So it’s not a bad thing. But even  haute cuisine can become tiresome after a while.” 

Concert level pianist, incredibly observant,  and a master chef? Even in someone twice her age that would be remarkable, but she couldn’t be past her mid-twenties. 

We ordered and I was glad the service was quick and the food amazing. I was surprised by how much Colin put away, though. I mean, he was a huge man, very muscular, so he would need far more calories. But he easily downed twice the amount of food I did, and I felt I would go into myocardial infarction then and there. But his face as he ate was sheer bliss, and I saw it as an opportunity to perhaps get to know him a little better.

“You act like you haven’t had a cheeseburger in a very long time.”

It took him a moment to finish chewing, as the last bite he had taken was huge . “It’s only been a couple of weeks, really. I have weekends and evenings off, of course, but I live there in the flat, so if I don’t have some reason to go out, I just eat in. Emma likes the company anyway.”

“Sherlock said she played piano. I assume he’s correct about that?”

Colin grunted while he wolfed down another massive bite. “Yes. Some days that’s all she does.”

“Really? Is she any good?”

“Was Beethoven good?  I certainly believe she is. I have always thought she would have made an amazing concert pianist, if it weren’t for the fact that even a few strangers terrify her. Stage performing is completely out of the question.” 

This left me feeling a bit unsettled. “Yet you were okay with her going to the mansion flat without you?”

He nodded and gave a small shrug while he chewed. “I personally believe she is far more capable with people than she believes herself to be. I believe her anxiety is, at its core, real. But I think she has simply fed into it for so long that it has become gargantuan in her mind. And she has forgotten the good and fun things she has been missing. Going out on something new and interesting, where there are only a few people so it isn’t too traumatic, will be good for her.”

“I doubt there were many people there. It is just a single flat, of course.”

He looked at his watch, then packed the last bite—though I think it would have been four bites to any normal person—into his mouth and quickly cleaned up his tray. As his mouth was too full to speak, I simply followed suit with as much haste as possible. It wasn’t until we were out on the pavement and halfway to the car that he was able to speak again. 

“She has never been out this long without one of my family with her. Never. I don’t know how I could have become so absorbed that I could have forgotten that.”

I wanted to reassure him that everything would be fine. But I didn’t know her, and worse, she was with Sherlock. He could force the most companionable person into a murderous rage. So I simply got into the car with due haste and excused the rather fast and reckless manner that he finished the drive to 221B. 

As we approached, I could see Sherlock and Miss Bedingfield waiting outside the building, though they were standing about five metres apart from each other. A few metres closer and I caught a glimpse of her face. She was not happy. Colin must have seen it at the same time as I did, because we both muttered simultaneously, “Uh oh.”

After parking the car and were walking up, Emma stormed past us, glaring at Colin and growling as she did so. She got to the car, swung open the door with great force, got in, and slammed the door behind her. Or tried to. She dropped her handbag just as she tried, so the door just bounced off her handbag. She pushed the door back open, grabbed her handbag, and slammed the door even harder.

Colin looked at Sherlock with wide eyes.  “What  did you  do?!”

Sherlock, who had been typing something on his phone, didn’t look up, but just waved his hand dismissively. “Nothing, she’s fine.”

It was my turn to confront him.  “That did not look fine, Sherlock. What did you say to her?”

No answer.

“Sherlock…!”

He sighed and put his phone in his pocket. “I may have said something about her only needing a little push into public to come out of her shell.”

Colin’s began to add wariness to his shock. “What do you mean, a ‘push into public?’”

“There may have been a few more people at MacIntosh’s flat than she was expecting.”

“A few?”

“A few dozen, perhaps.”

“Oh, God!” Colin turned around and ran to the car, got in, and it was obvious that she began a very heated tirade.

I turned back to Sherlock. “Did you  know there was going to be a few dozen people there?”

His expression was aloof, but he wouldn’t look at me. “I may have suspected.” He paused. “And there may have been some anonymous Internet postings among her friends suggesting the meet-up.”

“Sherlock, what were you thinking? She has severe social anxiety. You had to press her just this morning to even join us on this investigation, God only knows why you even decided to do  that.  What made you think that putting her into a tortuous circumstance in the first hour of the investigation could even  possibly be a good idea?”

“I had to see how she would deal with it, John. If she could adapt to the pressure and still observe. She has the capability. I needed to see if it would be important enough to her. It was, by the way.”

“Why? Why on earth does that even matter?”

“Because if she can’t handle a small, unexpected crowd, she can’t handle investigative work. I didn’t need her collapsing into a pile of jelly once we got into the meat of the investigation.”

“Oh, so you’d prefer to get the ‘collapsing into jelly’ part over and done with at the start, then? Sherlock, it still amazes me how incredibly stupid you can be sometimes. She was doing this as a special request, not the start of a career. If she had ever wanted to be some sort of consulting detective, she could have pursued it on her own.”

His arrogance was not only unbowed, but his ire was now rising. “You think she would have pursued this type of work without a push? Of course she wouldn’t have. And that would be a  complete waste of her talents! If I really wanted to put too much pressure on, I would have waited and asked for her assistance on a far more difficult case where she hadn’t been a witness and I wouldn’t have had to convince Lestrade to let her come along. This case will be far more simple and straightforward than the ones I usually take, so it can give her just enough to whet her appetite.”

“Again, why does that matter? There are millions, perhaps billions of people in this world whose talents are being wasted every day. It’s their choice. Why would you go to such great lengths to make someone uncomfortable in an effort to push them to be like—”

I stopped. “Oh.”

Sherlock looked at me suspiciously. “What?”

“You’re tired of doing it alone, aren’t you?”

He scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have you to accompany me.”

“No, I don’t mean a sidekick with a gun. I mean another person to observe things the way you observe things.”

“You’re more than a sidekick with a gun. You have been extremely valuable to me on a number of occasions.”

“Doesn’t matter. And besides, since I got married I haven’t been around nearly so much.”

“What are you implying?”

“You’re lonely.”

He scoffed again. “That is one of your most nonsensical theories to date.”

He was protesting too much. “No, it isn’t.”

“I don’t need to stand here and have my character maligned. I’m going inside. You can come in to discuss the case once you’ve given up on your ridiculous ideas.” He turned around and started unlocking the door.

“What about Emma and Colin?”

“She’ll come along eventually.”


	9. Chapter 9 (Emma POV)

Once I was in the car, the anger turned inward and I began shaking. I wasn’t just angry with Mr Holmes. I was angry with myself for ever believing one ounce of his masquerade.  Stupid, stupid girl! You knew what he was! You knew his appearance of kindness was all a sham to get what he wanted out of you, and yet you complied!

I began rehashing the conversation in my head, partially to confirm that I was justified in my temper, but also, I am ashamed to admit, to stoke the fires of it.

“See? All you needed was a little push into public.”

“You knew there was going to be a crowd there?”

“I suspected.”

“So this was just some sort of test? It’s just a game to you? Not only was that an absolutely herculean strain on me, but it’s a bloody murder investigation! It’s not a game! Do you have any idea how hateful that is?”

“You did remarkably well. It was almost as though you had no anxiety whatsoever.”

It was like he didn’t hear, or more likely didn’t care, about any cruel impropriety on his part. “I had to create a complete facade to hide behind, at less than a moment’s notice! And not just to keep myself from drawing attention and suspicion, but I felt obligated to interact! I am completely spent now and utterly useless. I have no more desire to continue in this investigation.”

No emotion, no reaction. “That would be your choice, of course. But I feel it would be a waste.”

“A waste? A waste?! No, Mr Holmes, what has been wasted is my time, my patience, and my good will. I am not an object upon which you may experiment or play your idiotic games. I am finished.” 

What stung the most at that moment was how obvious his indifference was. So impersonal, so aloof and unrepentant. As if taunting the fact that he had fooled me into believing he was human enough to feel anything, about the victim, about his family, about any of those hurt by the tragedy, or about me.

Now, as I was waiting for Colin, my anger was such that I was not only shaking, but I had to put forth effort to control my breathing. Why had I agreed to do this? I certainly didn’t need to. There were other, easier ways to acclimatize myself to social interactions and prove to Colin that he could pursue his own interests without worrying about me. 

Colin joined me in the car. 

“Emma, I’m sorry.”

By this point I was so upset I was ready to cry, so catching a whiff of grease and that horrid artificial cheese on him did not help. “You smell like those hateful cheeseburgers, Colin! Is that why you took so long to get here? Because you couldn’t delay your appetite?”

He threw back his head in frustration. “Yes, and I’m sorry about that, but that’s not the heart of what’s bothering you and you know it. I’m sorry that Mr Holmes pulled you into a crowd. I’m sure he didn’t—”

“Oh, but he  did,  Colin! He surmised there would be a crowd there. It was all some sort of bloody test!” All of the morning’s strain finally broke my demeanour and I crashed into wracking sobs. “There were so many people there, and he just leapt us right into the fray. He even introduced us with aliases, so I had to act a part and be sociable to everyone, all while trying to gather clues! Awful, horrid, hateful man!”

Colin turned to me, his expression full of pity. But no anger. As I sobbed for another few minutes, and then spent another few calming myself down, I tried to understand why he would not feel anger. I have seen him angry before. Not much in the past few years, but when he was a teenager he had quite a temper. Now, though I had been livid, even towards him, there was no anger. If he thought I had no reason to be upset, he would have defended himself more vigorously. But if he thought I were in danger, or had been grievously wronged, he would have leapt to my defence. Apparently he did not think either of these things.

I was pressing my handkerchief to my eyes for a moment before I asked him, “Do you believe he was right to do what he did?”

Pause. “Would you have gone in if you had known?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps he was.”

“Why would you say such things? I can barely function.”

“Emma, I have always said you could do far more than you believe yourself capable of.”

“And you are biased! You have known me your entire life and because of my stupid condition, your family has always put me on a sort of hateful pedestal. Any outside, intelligent person would see me as incapable as I truly am.”

“Then why would he do it? Why push you into a situation where you would be completely doomed to fail?”

“Because he is cruel and spiteful.”

“Risk an investigation for a cruel and spiteful trick on someone he hardly knows? I sincerely doubt that. Not to mention that I have yet to hear anything about your dismal failure.”

While my anger made me feel strongly that it had been nothing but a terrible experience, I realised with a little shock that he was right. I had been uncomfortable, and there had been a few awkward moments, but those had been smaller than I had expected and, as I reviewed the reactions of others, had seemed to go entirely unnoticed. It pulled the wind from the sails of my ire. 

“The alias he put you behind helped, didn’t it.”

Realising he was right—thought I would not admit it out loud as yet—not only made me less angry, it made me a little ashamed for becoming quite so livid.

“I can see from your face that you are coming around to the truth.”

“Just because you were right in two things does not mean you are right about everything. He was still cruel in the way he went about it. I still wish to go home. This has been too much for me. I am finished.”

There was a knock on my window then, which quite startled me. Though I could not see his face, I could tell by the coat it was Mr Holmes. Reluctantly, I rolled down my window.

He didn’t even stoop to allow his face to be seen. “John has insisted I come down here to apologise. So I’m apologising.”

Even the way he apologised rankled. But I could not ignore him without being rude, so I was just very quiet. “Thank you.”

There was a pause while everyone waited for someone to do something. I certainly hoped they weren’t waiting on  me to do something else, because I had no intention to. But then Mr Holmes took a deep breath and bent down so his face was only inches from me. I did not turn to look at him.

“I did not put you into that situation to torment you. I brought you into it because I knew you to be capable of it. You proved me right with great aplomb. I am…sorry…it was hard for you, but growing into your full capacity is never easy. We are going over the next steps in the investigation upstairs. You are welcome if you wish to join us. It is your choice.”

And with that, he simply walked away and entered the door marked 221B. 

I was floored. 

“Apparently, my family are not the only ones who think you more capable than you believe.”

I could barely hear Colin’s words. This altered…everything. 

Growing up, I had been considered somewhat accomplished for a woman, and my doting father had even taught me some of the newer naturalist methods—called the sciences today. But I had never been considered worthy of a voice, or a vote, or respect. Even my husband had seen me as little more than a sizable estate and a pretty thing to put on his arm. I had grown very used to this state, and with my natural shyness it was easy to turn myself inward, to books, music, and quiet observation. 

With Sarah and her descendants, of course, it was different. I had been respected. Revered, even. But I had ascribed that to unintentionally dying for Sarah, and then the growing family legend, which, as legends tend to do, could be as much based on fantasy as fact by now. In other words, I had given little credence to their high esteem of me from the start, and it had lessened over the years. Add to that my growing seclusion over the last hundred years, and I had considered myself growing ever less capable. 

But here was this stranger—by everything I had heard and seen, a man of unusual insight—who saw me as capable. Capable enough to be thrown into a murder investigation with no prior expertise. And he seemed to  want to hear my insights, rather than ignoring or belittling them. It was unfathomable. 

“Emma?”

Upon hearing Colin’s voice again, I shook my head to try to pull myself from my stupor.

“Do you wish to go home or not?”

He had made no motion to start the car. He hadn’t even pulled out his keys. Blast me for being so easily read.

“I suppose we can stay a few minutes more. But you  must stay with me, Colin, please. I may still wish to leave quickly.” 

“Mm-hm.” He got out of the car and came to open my door. I wasn’t sure how I felt about his obvious doubting of my reticence.

When we went inside and upstairs to the proper door, I stepped aside so that Colin could knock, but he shook his head.

“It’s you that were requested. You should knock. Don’t be afraid, Emma.”

I took a deep breath and knocked softly. It was only one seconds before Sherlock opened the door, as though he had been waiting.

“You’ve decided to join us. Have a seat.” He motioned us to the couch, where I sat hesitantly and Colin sat nearby. I was surprised to realise that, while I was still weary, I did not feel quite as spent as I had only ten minutes before. 

Sherlock turned to Colin first. “John tells me you were able to dig up an index of the deleted emails?”

Colin blinked. “Yes, yes I was. I didn’t feel I had time to try to print it or send it, so I took a photo of the screen with my phone.” He unlocked his mobile and handed it to Sherlock. “It’s just the email addresses they were from and the subject lines, but hopefully that can be a little helpful.”

Sherlock said nothing, instead focusing on typing something on his own phone and comparing something from both phones. Then he handed his phone to me. “Look familiar?”

His mobile showed a professional photograph of the tall, lanky fellow from the impromptu memorial. I nodded and passed the phone back. “The American at the gathering that Mrs MacIntosh was unable to identify. I take it he was one of the persons whose emails disappeared from MacIntosh’s inbox?”

“His deleted but unpurged emails, actually, but yes. There were only four of them, but there doesn’t seem to be any of his emails in MacIntosh’s account that were  not deleted, though I can find no other connection between him and MacIntosh, either government, business, or personal. His name is Aaron Dalton, he’s some executive with the Scottish branch of a large American corporation. There were also emails from Leslie Meston and Heath Dollman—Dollman was the construction worker at the gathering that Mrs MacIntosh could not identify, either—that were affected by the trojan, though they had only one email each, so that could have been random, but Heath Dollman’s email had been filed under the ‘threats’ folder.”

“So you believe those are likely to be our most fruitful avenues of investigation.”

He looked up at me with just his eyes. He had heard the mild disagreement in my tone. 

“Whom do you believe should be added to the list?”

“Edina Mattix.”

He sat up straighter and narrowed his eyes while looking at me. “She was one of the ones who appeared to harbour some feelings of guilt, yes. But I have found no ties between her and Charles MacIntosh other than the Parliamentary and rugby deals that Mrs MacIntosh already informed us about, all of which benefited her greatly. She wasn’t having an affair with him. I see no motive.”

“Did you not notice the way she flirted with no less than seven of the men there?”

He scoffed. “Of course I noticed. So she’s a voluptuary. Her eye makeup gave away that predilection soon enough. There are many such people in the world, and as she is not married, I don’t see how—”

“No, I didn’t ask if you saw  that she flirted. I asked if you saw  how she flirted. She was not interested in sex with those men.”

He just stared at me. It was unnerving, but I continued. 

“She does it to manipulate and control. Again, not unusual. But her targets were very specific. Mostly MPs and others with power and money. But there were three where the benefit from manipulating or controlling them was not so obvious.”

“And who were those three?”

“I don’t know their names.”

He threw himself back in his chair. “Why didn’t you ask Christi MacIntosh while we were there?!”

I tightened my mouth. “As I seem to recall, someone else dominated her questioning and then rushed us out the door.”

There was a moment’s silence before Sherlock looked at Dr Watson, who had been taking notes and still did not look up as he responded.

“Yes, you do that. All the time.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but instead seemed to switch his attention to somewhere within himself for a moment. “Those were the three Scotsmen who were involved with sport, but not as athletes, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So one possibility—and in my mind the weakest—is from a disgruntled taxpayer who sent him a threatening email. Heath Dollman is apparently well known in Westminster and has sent threats to a number of other MPs, all of whom are alive and well, so I really don’t believe he is our man. Then there are those affected by the fight at Stonebridge Pub in Edinburgh, and the possibility of something sinister involving Edina Mattix and three Scotsmen.”

“As I see it at this point, yes.”

“The two most promising lines of investigation have Scottish ties. And I found out that Mrs MacIntosh is having a formal do to honour her husband in Edinburgh tomorrow. My guess is there will be all of today’s people and more there.”

A cold shiver ran through me and settled in my stomach. “What are you trying to suggest?”

He smiled a rather unnerving smile. “I’m saying we need to obtain invitations to the memorial and head to Edinburgh.”

I felt all the blood drain from my head and I become somewhat queasy. 

“Scotland? Surely that won’t be necessary. There are telephones, video calls, other ways to get the information we need.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s not about the information they are  willing to give you. It’s about what information you can  take  from them with observation and deduction. People lie. Especially in murder investigations.” 

I knew he was right. I knew it before I had even protested, but I had to try. This was pushing me far beyond what I felt capable of. 

He then handed me his phone and when I looked at the screen, I had to sit back into the couch so I could be more steady. I closed my eyes and took very slow, forced breaths. The phone showed flights from London to Edinburgh. Those horrid flying metal death tubes. Of course, it wasn’t the possibility of death that terrified me…but I have never liked falling.

“I’m not getting on an aeroplane.” I tried to make my voice as calm as possible, but even I could hear the tremor in my voice. 

“What, you’re terrified of efficient transportation as well?” Even with my eyes closed, I detected a strong note of irritated sarcasm in his voice. 

“Mostly just planes. And sometimes buses. Especially those double-decker ones. Though I’ve never—” Splendid. I’d graduated from nervous silence to inane prattling.

“The flights are full, if you would scroll down on my phone. That leaves rail as the most efficient option.”

I opened my eyes and used my forefinger to scroll down on his mobile, but even before I saw the train options, I could feel myself relaxing. Trains. I could deal with a train. 

“Trains are tolerable enough. Colin and I—”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I think Colin should stay here. To aid in the computer investigation. It would be the best use of his talents.”

Were they to strip me of every security? “I don’t believe that is a good idea.”

Colin put his hand gently on my back. “You don’t have to go if you don’t wish it.”

Ugh. That only served to make me feel more guilty. I turned to face him. “Do you believe that would be best?”

“I do believe that I can probably help more here. As long as Scotland Yard would welcome my participation.”

He looked at Sherlock as he said the last words, and the detective nodded. “I have assured him that we would find information far more valuable than two witnesses who could neither actually identify the suspect, nor had actually seen the murder.”

Colin turned back to me. “Physical access to the servers at Westminster could be important.”

I closed my eyes again, the bone-deep weariness returning. How could I do such a thing? Go so far from home to be amongst a litany of strangers, for so long, without Colin? Analysing everyone about me for something as important as a murder investigation? I not only had not the capacity nor fortitude for the social interactions, but in every other way I was sure I was unequal to the task. I must refuse. I could go no further.

“Tell me about the facade you used at the mansion flat.” I opened my eyes again in surprise. It was Sherlock’s voice, surprisingly easy, as he had been that first night at the murder scene. 

I took a deep breath, remembering…not just the facts, but the feelings of the role I had played. 

“Emma Minett. Friend of Charles MacIntosh, though only marginally. Gregarious. She is not afraid of people. Bit of a gossip, though.”

“Can you focus on that long enough to get through the memorial? You won’t have to interact with people for more than a few hours at a time.”

I did not believe I could. I truly did not. But others believed I could. So, just maybe…. “Perhaps.”

“Most of the people there will know us as the Minetts, so of course we will have to resume that charade.”

That thought actually calmed me. I had hidden behind that before. I had more confidence I could hide behind it again.

“If it’s only for a very few hours, then I shall do my best to assist.”

Sherlock clapped his hands together and sat back in his chair. “Splendid. The memorial starts at six in the evening and the train takes nearly five hours, so I shall purchase three train tickets for the nine a.m. from Kings Cross.”

I took a deep breath of relief, exhaling it slowly. “Very well. Is that all you need from us this evening?”

His smile was practised and did not seem especially sincere. “Yes, you are free to leave.”

Colin and I stood, and I was much relieved that he was there as I was rather unsteady on my feet. But as Colin opened the door, I was again surprised by words from the detective. 

“Though, if you wish to discuss the case further, you are welcome to stay.”

I turned to him, confused. This did not match his general behaviour, what I had deduced, nor what I had heard of him. And by the look he was receiving from his good friend the doctor, it was not something he had expected either. I had to blink a few times to reset my brain.

“No, thank you, I am quite spent. We shall meet you at Kings Cross in the morning.”

We left, though I leaned heavily on Colin’s arm.

“You will be stronger tomorrow, Emma,” said Colin as we walked to the car. “You have already done well. You will do splendidly in Edinburgh. And just think of how pleasant it will be to see a bit beyond the walls of the flat!”

I smiled weakly and even managed a small laugh. “Always seeing the bright side, Colin! I believe that  you  are rather excited about working with Scotland Yard on a true computer security case.”

“That thought has crossed my mind.”

I squeezed his arm just before he handed me into the car. “I am very happy for you, Colin. Now everyone else shall know you are the genius I have always known you to be.” His smile faltered a moment, sending a sliver of worry into my bones. 


	10. Chapter 10 (John Watson POV)

I arrived at King’s Cross Saturday morning at 8:30 with two small bags. Once I found the platform for our train, and I had surveyed the area well enough to feel confident that Sherlock and Miss Bedingfield were not yet there, I settled onto a bench and checked my watch. Fifteen minutes. I was not surprised that Sherlock wasn’t there yet. He is not a morning person, and he is certainly arrogant enough to believe that the train schedule will alter for him. Miss Bedingfield I did not know well enough to know what to expect. 

As it was a Saturday, business traffic was light, and since it was early spring, holiday traffic was sparse as well. Still, even if the station had been crowded, it would have been impossible not to notice Emma when she came onto the platform. She was dressed in a complete Victorian outfit, including a long, dark blue dress edged with black lace, a matching long blue coat, a short hat that looked something like a top hat except it was festooned with feathers and lace, gloves, and even two old-fashioned, leather-bound suitcases. 

It only took her a moment to see me and come sit on the bench, setting her suitcases down. I was still staring. She folded her hands in her lap and sat as if there were nothing unusual about her appearance at all.

“They have suitcases with wheels, you know.”

“Yes, I’ve seen some of Colin’s. But I don’t travel much, and I am rather fond of these.”

“Apparently.”

There was a few more moments of silence before, without even looking at me, she commented, “You really don’t need to stare, Doctor. I am sure there is nothing you can say about my clothing that I have not already heard from Colin.”

I shook my head to stop my staring. “Please, call me John.”

Her lips turned up in a shy little smile and she actually looked at me briefly. “Thank you, John. You may call me Emma.”

I returned her smile, then forced my eyes ahead, but finally curiosity got the better of me.

“Fine, I’ll bite. Why the Victorian garb?”

“I’ve always associated trains with the Victorian era. Steam engines, sooty stations, one of the most important advancements of the industrial revolution.” Then she let out a small sigh that sounded almost mournful. “Though I know that is not what you were asking. As is obvious, I have been reluctant to interact with people for many years. But to live wholly confined to a flat is not conducive to learning or observing, despite the best sources of secondhand information. So if I must go out, I put up this artificial front. If I dress in another era or as another person, then it is a wall—though really more of a window—between myself and the world. They see the front, the outfit, the era, and I feel as though I am tucked into that era or persona, looking out at them.”

I blinked. “I don’t understand. It seems it would draw  more attention to you, not protect you from it.”

She sighed again, this time less with sadness and more with long-suffering. “That’s what Colin always says as well. But my anxieties don’t make much sense, do they? Why should my coping mechanism make any more sense than the malady itself? It makes me  feel less exposed, and that is enough.”

I had to nod in agreement with her reasoning. 

We waited in silence for another five minutes, and just as the train arrived and we stood, Sherlock showed up. 

He looked over Emma with a smile. “Ah, late Victorian. Lovely era.”

He hadn’t seemed the least bit surprised at her outfit. “Did you predict that she would be dressed in a Victorian gown?”

“Not Victorian era, specifically, but she has already shown a penchant for dressing in styles from other eras, so I certainly wasn’t surprised.”

I should have known better than to ask. I picked up my bags and one of Emma’s and we headed toward the train. 

  


It didn’t take long to settle into our seats. Emma sat facing us, by the window. I took the aisle seat and Sherlock sat directly across from her. I really didn’t know what to expect from the trip. Nearly five hours sitting in close proximity to Sherlock Holmes could be annoying, boring, or interesting at any given time. Adding someone whom he found intriguing—but who also knew him very little and we knew very little about—spiced up the pot. 

It wasn’t long after that the train started moving forward, and within a few minutes we had passed from London and began to see the green of the English countryside. We were on the side of the train facing east, so even though it had been raining all morning, the wet morning sun illuminated our side of the train, setting Emma’s face aglow as she kept her gaze fixed out the window. 

A small smile graced her lips, and I realised for the first time how incredibly young she was. She hardly looked out of her teens. It rather surprised me. She had always looked young, but never quite this girlish, and in dealing with her over the last twenty four hours she had left the impression that she was much older. How could an accomplished pianist and chef, observant and clever enough to even impress Sherlock Holmes, be so young? Even if she were incredibly precocious, those skills take time to develop. 

“I knew you would like it. Did I not tell you it would be interesting?”

I turned to Sherlock as he spoke, and realised he was talking to Emma. 

She turned toward him, her smile fading. “I beg your pardon?”

“Investigating. Observing. Deducting. You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

Her gaze returned to the window. “I was simply admiring the view. It has been quite a while; I had forgotten what it felt like to be out and experiencing the world for myself.”

“So the deciphering of puzzles and people holds no interest for you?”

“Interest, yes. I have always loved the observation and analysis of human nature and behaviour. But I have neither the skills nor the passion for it that you have.”

“I believe you do yourself a disservice. It is through confidence that you win the prize.”

“And it is through humility that you learn new things.” Her smile was pleasant, but also very old and wise, in defiance of the apples in her cheeks and the shine in her eyes. 

I started to feel a bit superfluous, like an intruder in a somewhat intimate conversation. Did Sherlock even realise how much was being revealed of his own character? He was so decidedly self-ignorant that I sincerely wondered. 

His next comment told me he was now seeking a distraction from the current topic.

“You’re actually wearing a corset under that dress?”

“I don’t think these dresses were made to ever be wearable without one.”

His eyebrow twitched and he turned his attention to the window. So it was quiet for nearly a half an hour, but as Sherlock’s curiosity always won out, he started questioning her again.

“I could find very little information about you on-line or in the public records.”

She didn’t turn from the window. The side of her mouth facing us twisted into an amused grin. “I was wondering when you would bring that up. I had no doubt you had looked.”

“I understand your anxiety would keep you out of society. But why would you choose to be nearly so completely off-grid?”

Her gaze moved from the window to her hands in her lap. “I have never seen the need to use social media, nor to obtain a driving license, nor engage in any of the activities that would result in a number of other public records. And as I don’t leave my flat much, I have little opportunity to get into the types of trouble that generally puts one into the types of records you would peruse.”

He said nothing, showed no emotion. But I could tell by the way he stared at her longer than was normally acceptable that he was struggling to figure her out, and that both annoyed and intrigued him. I remember him saying once something to the effect of ‘genius demands to be shown.’ The fact that she seemed to do the opposite must have been very perplexing. And suggested that perhaps something more sinister lay out of sight.

After another half hour, I was getting quite bored, so I got up and retrieved a paper and began reading. After a few minutes, I was surprised to hear Emma’s voice ask timidly, “Will you be needing all of the paper?”

I looked up. “No, what section would you like?”

“The puzzles, if you don’t mind.”

I found that section and handed it to her, to which she smiled and said, “Thank you kindly.”

I didn’t pay much attention to her after that—until I noticed she was filling all the puzzles out. In pen. Without even pausing to think about a single clue. Jumbles, crosswords, ciphers. Everything. I looked at my watch, then at Sherlock, who was watching her work with his hands together in front of his face, as he does when he is thinking about something.

When she finished, she handed the paper back to me with another smile and thanks. I checked my watch again. Seven minutes. Even if you added a couple of minutes before I started timing, it was remarkable. I looked back at Sherlock, who was just taking his hands from in front of his face.

“You’re bored.”

She was putting her pen back into her handbag. “We’ve been on the train for over an hour and a half now. It is natural to be bored.”

“Yes, but that is not what I was referring to.”

She looked out the window again, refusing to rise to his bait, but he continued.

“You sit in your flat, day in and day out, with little but your piano and reading to entertain you. Your mind is far too sharp for that. You miss the stimulation.”

She waited a long moment, staring out the window, before she turned to him. 

“Perhaps being out and about a bit has reminded me of things I have missed. Perhaps it has even been diverting. But I certainly do not require the level of stimulation which you seem to find so indispensable. I am not interested in a career as a dragon slayer, Mr Holmes. Nor, for that matter, as a dragon.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Liar.”

Her jaw stiffened and she turned back to the window. But she did not refute him. 

After another few minutes, she began to look uncomfortable, rubbing at the side of her ribcage. “If you gentlemen will excuse me.” And she rose and headed down the aisle towards the loo. I turned to Sherlock.

“What was that about?”

“The corset. Notoriously uncomfortable—”

“Not  that,  Sherlock. The grilling. I haven’t seen you this interested in anyone since—”

“John, we’ve been  over this. I really wish you would let it go.”

“Seriously? I won’t let it go until you do! She has expressed multiple times that she has no interest in detecting.”

“But she’s  lying,  John!”

“And you’re projecting! Or getting far more emotionally involved than you claim.”

He rolled his eyes. “Would you let an Aston Martin sit in a car park? Or a garage?”

“She’s not an  object,  Sherlock. Not even a highly tuned work of art. She’s a  person, and she gets to choose how she wishes to live her life.”

Sherlock crossed his arms in front of him in an angry, sulky expression. But in a moment it melted away as Emma came back and resumed her seat. She seemed almost unaware of us at first. But after a moment of looking out the window again, she turned to me and spoke.

“You really shouldn’t give him such a hard time, John. He means well, and truly, I doubt he knows anything else.”

And with that she turned back to the window. Sherlock turned back to the window, looking surly.

I went back to the paper, but I couldn’t concentrate. My curiosity was eating at me and growing worse by the minute. Finally I looked back up at Emma. She had a slight smile on her face, and though her head faced the window, I could see that there were many times when her attention was actually turned inward.

“What is so intriguing about the view that has kept you engrossed for so long?”

She turned back to me, but it seemed reluctant. “Memories.”

“Really? Of what?”

“A similar train ride, long ago.” She paused, looking out the window again. I almost thought she was finished, but then she added, “And a young man.”

We were getting somewhere! “So you have not always been such a recluse?”

She looked down at her hands. “Not always, no. Never really any kind of socialite, of course, but not always this extreme, either.”

“So what happened with the young man?”

The smile faded. It was like the sun had set. “He died.”

I felt hateful for having asked. “I’m sorry.”

She responded only with a slight nod, then turned back to the window and was silent the rest of the trip.


	11. Chapter 11 Emma POV

I hadn’t expected the train to bring back so many memories. I shouldn’t have been surprised, as I hadn’t ridden one since the Great War, when visiting Cornwall. And there was a lot to remember from then.

It had been a horrid time. A terrible reminder of the dark and bloody side of human nature and the extent to which they would sully and defile themselves for stupid and fleeting lucre, power, and land. The only good to come of it was that those of us at home were more driven to do everything we could to support the troops and each other. Back then, war meant personal sacrifice for everyone.

I had actually been doing rather well at getting out at that point—decades of practice had helped me at least tolerate human interaction, and Helen was particularly good at insisting I get out. She said it was important for a woman of my station to show proper concern for the people. 

We volunteered around the city, making things for soldiers, visiting the injured, helping in the hospital. I don’t think Colin would have even recognised me. It was while working in one of the hospitals that I met Mason Genn. He had been to the front in Germany and had been shot no less than three times, eventually losing his left arm and right kidney to shrapnel and was sent back to England to convalesce. Though he was from Cornwall, London was the hub of medical care in the country, so it was here he was recovering. 

Mason was very different from the other soldiers. His cheer and wit—something we had in very short supply—made him everyone’s favourite patient and ward mate. He was kind to everyone, though it often came with a good bit of ribbing. So I thought nothing special of my regard for him or his kindness to me. After all, I had never been of a romantic temperament, and being unable to age or die had only solidified my determination to avoid any kind of real relationship beyond anyone but Sarah’s descendants. And I had been blessed by my estate and wise investing to not require marriage to survive.

But Mason insinuated himself into my heart before I realised what had happened. 

It started simply enough. He had played the violin before the War, and the loss of his left limb had put that particular pastime out of reach. But he loved to talk of music and listen as much as possible, so when he discovered that I played the piano, he insisted that I speak to him of music as often as I had time. As it was our duty to make the convalescing soldiers comfortable and bring a little cheer, I complied, and was not sorry for it. Mason’s cleverness ran far deeper than simple wit, and his musical repertoire was much broader than the country dances I had expected. Eventually he convinced me to bring my phonograph to the hospital, ‘for the soldiers.’ I knew it was not for the other soldiers, but I minded not a whit. He taught me to dance the more modern dances and I often stayed long after my shift was over. 

But the most precious part to me was this: he made me feel valued, intelligent, and appreciated. He listened to me, respected my opinions, and treated me like I was as intelligent as any man, perhaps even more so. Charm and looks have won over many a maid. But I was too old and world-weary to fall for such superficial qualities. When I finally realised I had fallen, it had all been for his mind and his respect for me. 

When he was released from hospital, he didn’t return to Cornwall except to take me to see it on holiday. He found a flat in town so that we could be close to each other. After a year of asking me to marry him, I felt I could no longer continue to hide my secret from him. I was sure he would think me mad or a freak and would abandon me immediately. But, after Helen’s corroboration, he believed me. He actually believed me. And he didn’t hate me or treat me like the freak that I am. That convinced me to accept his offer of marriage. We were to be wed in the spring. 

That was 1918.

The year of the Spanish Flu.

Mason had survived mustard gas, razor wire, bullets and bombs. He had lost his left arm and his right kidney in war, living through that trauma and the subsequent surgeries and risks of infection. Yet he was taken by influenza. 

After that, I could no longer fight my predisposition to hide away. I no longer saw the point. Helen tried everything, but I stopped eating for days, and refused to go out for years. I did not leave our flat at all until 1946, when London was being rebuilt after the second World War and I thought I needed a better way to ensure income for myself in perpetuity, without my having to go out ever again. So I bought my current building, which was cheap because it had been partially bombed out in the blitz. I had it rebuilt with modern amenities, and moved into the penthouse. I had hidden away there ever since. Now, for the first time in nearly a hundred years, I was on a train again, this time heading to Edinburgh. 

By the time we reached Waverley Station, I was already weary and not looking forward to the memorial that evening. It is still unfathomable to me how sitting in a carriage for nearly five hours can drain a person so completely. I was extremely grateful that the hotel that had been chosen was an easy walking distance from the train station. 

John was a dear and carried my heavier bag along with his own to the hotel. Sherlock still seemed too surly to even notice. I wasn’t sure if he was upset at the loss of pride from my coming to his defence in regards to John’s reprimands, or by my statement that he didn’t know how to do anything other than be rude and abrasive. Because I was sure the scolding was because of me. 

His abrasive behaviour, however, was no longer as irritating to me as it had been. While Sherlock was insistent that I be pushed out of my wont, I now knew it was because, for some unfathomable reason, he had a strong belief that I could be more than I was. And though his manner could be improved upon, I found the motive behind it…comforting. Even if I didn’t believe he was right. 

The hotel was simply lovely. It was very old—I had actually visited it once before, in the late 1800’s—and though it had been modernised, the familiarity of the building and some of the trappings felt absolutely wonderful. In a world where everyone and everything you’ve ever known changes or passes away so quickly, it was comforting to have something,  any thing that was familiar for a little longer. Sherlock was muttering about the wi-fi always being terrible in retrofitted buildings, but I didn’t even care. 

When we had reached our floor and had proceeded to our rooms, Sherlock spoke up as he was unlocking his door.

“We have just over three hours to the memorial, but I would like to be there earlier to discuss contingencies with Mrs MacIntosh, so we should leave about five.”

“Works for me, yeah,” answered John, who was still holding my luggage and waiting for me to open my door. “That’ll give me time to grab a bite downstairs before getting ready. Emma, would you like to join me?”

I dearly wanted to, as I was quite famished, but I had research I wanted to do and it would take some time to prepare myself for the memorial. Not to mention that the pins holding my hat in place were becoming rather uncomfortable. 

“I’m sorry, not this time, John. Perhaps after the memorial we could all have dinner?”

Sherlock was just standing there with his door ajar, not joining in the conversation but not entering his room, either. I actually felt a little bad for him—it was as though he felt unable to contribute because the subject was not crime related enough. And not being invited to lunch by his good friend? I addressed him directly. 

“Do you not eat, Mr Holmes?”

It was like he was pulled from deep thought. “I usually don’t eat while I’m in the midst of a case. John knows that.” So the exclusion was explainable—but it still seemed to have stung. And with that, he went into his room and shut the door behind him.

I was finally able to unlock and open my door, and as I did, John addressed me quietly. “I don’t know many people that call him ‘Mister Holmes.’”

I sighed as I carried my luggage into the room and set it down. “Yes, I suppose that is terribly impersonal. I really should break that habit.” I began unpinning my hat with great relief. “When he was interrogating me yesterday morning, I fought the familiar terms. But he’s not so bad once you get to know him a little.”

John had set the other piece of my luggage down, but now looked rather surprised and pleased at the same time.

“Really? Most people would be imagining ways to hurt him or using his name as an epithet by now.”

“Why on earth would they do that?” I set my hat and pins down on the bureau and rubbed my scalp with my fingertips to ease the soreness. “His manners are sometimes rough, but he seems to mean well.”

The doctor laughed. “You haven’t known him very long.”

I smiled in return. “That is very true. But regardless, I think he is amiable enough. At least he grows on you.”

He continued smiling at me but cocked his head a little, as if trying to figure me out. I rather wished he would hurry along so I could take the damnable corset off, but I didn’t wish to be rude. 

“You know, I think you are remarkable. You are one of the only people I’ve seen meet him, not be immediately irritated by his deductions of you, and actually still find him to be an okay chap after more than a few minutes. And you’re certainly the only person I’ve heard use the word ‘amiable’ to describe him.”

It was my turn to laugh. “This from his best friend?”

“I may be his best friend, but I have also punched him in the face. More than once. But we’re men. Men can do that to each other and still be friends.”

I was grinning fit to burst. “I have noticed that about some men, yes. I don’t think that particular approach would work so well with me, though—I am quite sure that if I tried to hit him, I would hurt myself far worse than I hurt him. I am a bit coordination challenged, you know.”

He laughed again. “You are quite amiable yourself, once you come out of your shell.”

I felt myself blush a little, and though I kept up my smile, I felt a little shame at his words. How cold and unkind I must seem to the strangers with whom I have come in contact over the years! But I thanked him, then he excused himself and left, shutting the door behind him. 

  


The first thing I did after the doctor left was unfasten my dress as fast as I could. It was easier said than done when you are as poorly coordinated as I am. And those damnable buttons! But at last I was able to remove the dress and unlace my corset. As the restricting reinforced satin and stays relaxed around me, my body relaxed as well, and my lungs rejoiced to fill completely with air. It had been a very long time since I had worn a corset, and I had forgotten how difficult it could be when you weren’t used to it. My back was going to ache for hours. 

But now I felt deliciously free, so I pulled a small laptop from my bag, hooked into the hotel’s wi-fi (which wasn’t nearly as poor as Sherlock had predicted), and began researching right then and there, in my petticoat. I would be playing the role of Emma Minett again tonight. But this time I was going to be better prepared. 

MacIntosh had been a sport enthusiast. Most of his friends and acquaintances had been involved with sport as well, especially rugby—the red and black at the memorial yesterday were Edinburgh’s team colours. I had been able to steer conversations away from the subject before, but today I hoped to dig deeper, and that required a better understanding of the sport. So I crammed as much research into thirty minutes as I could. 

Once I felt I had spent as much time on that as possible, I proceeded to the second part of my preparation. 

I ironed the gown I had brought and hung it up, then bathed. Dressed and examined myself in the mirror. I had not worn this dress out in public ever. Helen had purchased it for me in 1932 in a failed attempt to get me out. It was long black silk, tailored to my curves, with a low draped collar in front and back, no sleeves, and a skirt that was just long enough to pool an inch or two upon the ground when I stood. I rather liked it, and had sometimes worn it around the flat when I wanted to feel pretty. I was particularly fond of that decade for fashion.

I then applied generous amounts of costume makeup to the scar on my neck where Thomas, my first husband, had slashed my throat in a rage, resulting in my first death. That was the only scar from any of my seven deaths, probably because it was the one that set me on this journey of immortality. I had been covering it up for enough years that I had become quite the expert at disguising it, but as the low collar on my dress called extra attention to my neck—among other things—I took the extra precaution of donning a thick choker of pearls. It was rather more showy than I generally liked, but that scar was not only unbecoming; it raised too many questions. 

Then I spent a good number of minutes styling my unruly hair. I pulled the front back in swooping waves and fixed it, applied enough product to make my loose curls glossy and more like ringlets than the haphazard mop I often wore, and put on a headband of tiny, black, false flowers and seed pearls. My goal, you see, was to distract and charm. Women were not always kind to women they felt were too pretty. But men…men were generally quite weak for such things. I didn’t like it. I hated being an object, rather than a person; seen for my looks rather than who I actually was. But as most of my life it had been  all I had ever been to strangers and even acquaintances, I knew how to use it. And I had to remember, I was not to be Emma Bedingfield tonight. I was Emma Minett. And she was charming.

Makeup then, just a little more than usual (and far more than the last two days) for evening wear, and shoes. I wasn’t particularly fond of heels, either, but they made me feel almost as tall as a normal person. 

The knock came to the door just as I was putting a double-strand pearl bracelet on my wrist, so I grabbed my little black clutch with my room key in it and opened the door. 

The doctor and Sherlock were there, as I expected, but they just sort of stared for a few long moments, until I began to feel very self-conscious.

“Am I overdressed? I’m overdressed, aren’t I. I’m afraid I didn’t pack anything else more appropriate, I’m sorry. Oh, now I feel foolish.”

The doctor finally cleared his throat. “Um, no, you’re…you’re fine. I’m sure you’re completely fine. Black is appropriate for a memorial, so I’m sure you’re fine.”

Sherlock blinked and turned his head away. “I’ve already requested a cab, so we should hurry.”

“Right, then,” I replied, and came out to join them, closing the door behind me. 

  


The cab ride was uneventful, though so quiet that is was unnerving. I really was overdressed, I was sure of it, and my confidence in my plan had fled completely. What had I been thinking? The boys looked dapper enough, but they were not in tuxedos, and here I was in near formal wear. Foolish, foolish Emma!

When we arrived, I was surprised that Sherlock extended his elbow to me as I exited the cab. Surely there would be no guests here yet, and Mrs MacIntosh already knew about our subterfuge. But I took it anyway. Even when the offer was inexplicable, being on someone’s arm was such a habit with me that it felt more comfortable than not. 

We walked in and immediately saw Mrs MacIntosh overseeing the final preparations of the large room. There were small tables scattered around the edges, obviously more for rest and light refreshments than any sort of formal meal or addresses. Servants were even now adding chairs and tablecloths. The large heart of the floor was open for dancing, as the event was to be more of a ball than anything else. In accordance with that, at the near end of the room was a large raised dais bearing a grand piano, microphones, and stands for other instruments. Black crepe hung tastefully about the room, as well as the occasional photo of Mr MacIntosh in happier times. 

We approached Mrs MacIntosh, and when she turned she immediately addressed me. “Oh, dear! Don’t you look lovely!”

Sherlock cleared his throat. I don’t think he liked not being the centre of attention. “Mrs MacIntosh, this is my colleague, Dr Watson.” The introduction was very brief and polite, then Sherlock got right to the matter at hand. “Have you made sure that everyone on the list I gave you was invited?”

“Yes, I did. I can’t guarantee that all of them will come, of course. I certainly can’t force them.”

“That will have to do, but I have a feeling that the right people will show up regardless. Now, did you make sure to have one or two people hired for security as I requested? I doubt that things will become violent, but you never can tell with murderers.”

He gave her a small smile, but she looked understandably appalled. I suppressed a smile at his momentary difficulty hiding his excitement.

The second his smile faded, he was back to business. “Now, may we have a look about the room?”

“Of course,” she stammered, still rather unnerved about his comment. 

So we headed for a turn about the room. Six doors led to the outside, all on the sides and easily visible from the open centre. There was no space behind the dais for anyone to hide. That was nice; it would make it easier to see the comings and goings of all the guests. After I thought of that, I felt a little uneasy. I was already beginning to alter my perception to be wary and alert for criminal behaviour. And though that may have been needful for the current situation, I wasn’t sure if that was comforting. 

Sherlock had not loosed my arm this entire time, which I found made me more comfortable with asking him questions. “Are you really going to confront the murderer here? At the victim’s memorial? That hardly seems courteous.”

He was still scrutinising the doors and walls. “Apprehending criminals is more important than courtesy. Particularly if delay gives them an opportunity to flee.”

I had to agree with at least the last half of his comment. But I was not yet inured enough by criminal behaviour to completely give up on courtesy. 

Not looking at either of us, he addressed John. “Did you bring your gun?”

“Yes,” answered the doctor, though at least  he had the foresight to keep his voice down. 

“Really?” I hissed, “A gun to a memorial? In Britain? Sherlock! Everyone knows we use billy clubs and very tall, furry hats.”

While John snorted, Sherlock looked at me with some surprise, and I realised that was the first time I had addressed him by his first name out loud. It was only a moment before he turned away again, almost as though nothing had happened, except now I detected a hint of a smile. “You never can tell with murderers,” he repeated, and pulled just enough of a pair of handcuffs from his pocket to allow me to identify them before he hid them away again. I found some solace that I was still not so detection-minded to have predicted  that.

When we turned to head back towards the dais, I could see that Mrs MacIntosh was on the phone, and she seemed rather upset. Sherlock and John must have seen it too, because we all picked up our pace. 

She was ringing off just as we arrived. 

“What is it? What’s happened?” Sherlock’s tone made everything seem more urgent.

“Oh, it’s just awful! Simply horrid!”

John’s voice was equally serious, but lacked Sherlock’s urgency. “Has someone else been hurt?”

She shook her head, but appeared no less distraught. “No. That was the band I had commissioned for tonight. Their pianist has sprained his wrist and cannot play.”

Sherlock actually rolled his head about on his neck in annoyance. “Is that all? I thought it was something serious. Emma here plays.”

I was grateful at that moment that my arm was still laced around his elbow, because it allowed me to pinch him surreptitiously. Hard. Sherlock’s arm flinched, but his face showed no reaction whatsoever.

Mrs MacIntosh eyed me apologetically before responding. “Really? You’re already so busy, I would hate to ask….but might you be able to fill in, perhaps for just a few songs?”

I smiled graciously, trying to hide how nervous I had become. Of course, I hadn’t planned on this. Was Emma Minett a pianist as well? It  would  be a good additional layer to the role, I supposed. I breathed slowly in through my nose. “Of course.”

I withdrew my arm from Sherlock’s elbow and handed him my clutch, noticing a slight tremble in my hands. Sherlock paused before taking it, then slipped it into his inside coat pocket. I walked slowly up to the dais, took a deep breath, and climbed the stairs, though I stumbled and nearly fell on the last step. Pretending like nothing had happened, I moved forward and sat at the piano, arching my hands above the keys, trying to think of what would be appropriate for such an interview, since, of course, I had not prepared anything. There were very few I could think of, but trying my best, I began. It was a waltz with a slightly mournful tone and a slower rhythm, but I had always found it lovely. Mason and I used to dance to it. 

When I finished, I had to wait a moment to compose myself before turning to see if it met with approval. Mrs MacIntosh was nodding with approval, which eased my heart somewhat. Then she paused as if considering something, and walked up to the edge of the dais, only a couple of feet from me. 

“That was lovely, dear, absolutely splendid. But it got me to thinking: I know this is a ball, and as such I had planned on only instrumental pieces. But your piece reminded me of an old Scottish song Charlie and I used to love, and I would love to hear it one more time. The band I hired aren’t really vocalists, so perhaps we wouldn’t want it in the memorial proper. But you wouldn’t happen to sing, would you?”

Were the challenges to never end? But I could see the yearning in her, and it reminded me so much of my own pain that could do nothing but acquiesce. “A little.”

“Would you happen to know ‘The Season Comes When First We Met’? The Scottish folk song?”

I nodded. That was an old favourite from my own era. I took a deep breath and turned back to the piano.

The season comes when first we met,   
   But you return no more;   
Why cannot I the days forget,   
   Which time can ne'er restore?

O! days too sweet, too bright to last,   
   Are you, indeed, forever past?   
The fleeting shadows of delight,   
   In memory I trace;

In fancy stop their rapid flight,   
   And all the past replace;   
But, ah! I wake to endless woes,   
   And tears the fading visions close!

After I had finished and the strings in the piano had stopped ringing, I paused at the keyboard, very unsure of my performance. My voice had cracked once, as I was thinking too much of Mason. 

When I had regained the courage to turn around, Sherlock and John had nearly the same expressions they had had earlier when I opened the door to my room in the hotel. Mrs MacIntosh, however, had tears on her cheeks and her hand over her mouth. I feared I had offended her deeply, so I rose and opened my mouth to apologise, but in the time it took to do so, she ran onto the dais. Then, before I could say anything, she threw her arms around me and sobbed into my ear. 

“Oh, my darling, darling, lass! That was wondrous! I had no idea you were such a talented songstress! It was as though you felt my pain. It made my heart weep for my Charlie.”

She pulled back and looked straight at me with wet eyes but a wide smile. I was so surprised that it took me a moment to smile back. “Thank you, Miss Bedingfield. My heart is satisfied; I don’t need that again for the ball.”

I nodded. “Would you prefer waltzes, jazz, blues, classical, or highland reels?”

She laughed and turned her head back to Sherlock and John. “You should have told me you had brought such a gem as this!” Then she turned back to me and, while wiping the tears from her face, said, “Anything you like and the band can keep up with, my dear. I now trust you implicitly.”


	12. Chapter 12 John Watson POV

When Sherlock knocked on my door to leave for the memorial, he seemed as stoic and focused as usual. 

But then we went to Emma’s room and knocked on her door. And when she opened it, everything sort of…shifted. 

I had always thought she was a pretty sort of girl. But she had been hiding something from us all this time. Mary would kill me for saying this, but Emma was absolutely stunning.

When she opened that door, we were both shocked into silence. The way her black dress clung and flowed, the shimmer of her hair, pulled up and then hanging in perfect ringlets, the milky perfection of her skin, her deep and glistening emerald eyes. Neither of us spoke until she apparently became nervous and began to express doubts as to her choice of attire. Only after I stammered an approval of her clothing—which felt quite inadequate, though I dared not express more—did she come with us.

Sherlock said nothing to her, and little otherwise, until we arrived at the venue for the memorial. Usually at this point in an investigation, especially with those uninitiated in his methods, he would at least give occasional instructions. He considered himself the ultimate authority and liked to be in control. But this time there was nothing, and he was definitely avoiding looking at her. It reminded me very clearly of a time a few years back when another woman had sent him a very long series of texts, none of which had been replied to, and I wondered if this might be taking a similar turn. And if it would have the same destructive outcome. 

Now, I found myself more distracted by Sherlock’s behaviour and attitude towards Emma than the case. For some reason, it just seemed far more interesting. I had to admit, there may have been a little self-righteous glee at seeing my best friend, who had always eschewed and belittled any form of sentiment, show even a modicum of discombobulation around a woman. Particularly when it disrupted his normally unshakable arrogance and self-assurance. 

When the cab arrived at the ballroom, he still said nothing to her, but extended his arm to escort her into the building—something positively unheard of with him. She seemed to be used to that sort of escort with Colin, and it may have been part of the subterfuge the day before. But Sherlock was most definitely not her—or anyone’s—servant, and there was no one there to perform for. I was glad I was behind them because I was staring and having a hard time keeping my mouth from gaping. 

Once we were inside and speaking with Mrs MacIntosh, his normal abrasive arrogance seemed to return, but we were able to start examining the building without Mrs MacIntosh slapping him, so I thought we did relatively well. 

I  tried focusing on the room as a potential crime scene or mini battleground. I really did. But Sherlock continued to escort Emma by the arm, which was still unnerving and kept my brain occupied repeating the words  why  and  what is he doing  over and over. What little was said between Sherlock and Emma seemed normal enough. At first. Questions about the venue and potential issues for the evening, followed by straightforward answers. Until she called him Sherlock. Though his reaction was brief, he had definitely reacted. Part of me gloried in the fact that I had encouraged her to call him that just this afternoon, while the rest of my brain was scrambling trying to guess why he would have been affected at all. 

Then he volunteered her to play piano for the evening when the hired entertainer had to bow out. At first, I was irate for her. He had seemed determined to push her beyond her limits from the beginning, but it had been focused on her detective skills. Now, for some reason, he was putting her forth to be traumatised in a way not necessary for the case, though we had never actually heard her play. Almost as if he were determined to push her over the edge.

I shouldn’t have worried. 

She took to the keyboard like a drunk to drink, and after the first piece, I think Mrs MacIntosh asked her to sing something, because that’s what she did next. And it was amazing. Sherlock stared again, as he had at her hotel door. 

I was surprised to see Emma turn timidly around after each song ended, as though she were unsure it would meet our approval. Could she really be that insecure? But Mrs MacIntosh was over the moon with the performance and expressed it effusively, giving Emma the confidence she needed to continue at the piano for quite some time. Her repertoire consisted of blues, jazz, classical, traditional Scottish reels, and though there was no more singing, her playing was astounding enough. All without the slightest opportunity for preparation. I was impressed, both by her musical skill and her ability to unnerve Sherlock. 

It was well into the fourth piece when he tore himself away and said that we should examine the outside grounds. I agreed instantly. Even I was starting to feel the distraction was becoming too much.

It was becoming dark outside, but the car park for the location was well lit, as were most of the areas right next to the building. There were pockets of darkness, however, particularly near the skips, that could be problematic. But at least now that we were outside, Sherlock seemed to have returned to normal.

While checking under the skip covers with my torch, I asked, “Do you really think that the killer will try to hide in one of these darker areas? That seems a little too obvious.”

“Possibly,” he answered, while checking a particularly small opening behind one of the bins. “But I believe it is equally likely that another crime could be committed tonight.”

I was a little surprised. “So you don’t think this was simply a personal attack? Why not?”

“I have found no evidence of an extramarital affair. His financial accounts also seem to be entirely above board, without any unusual or unexplained transactions. And in researching every threat I found against him at Westminster, I could find nothing credible. Even Heath Dollman, who seemed to have the size and strength to commit the crime, has apparently been sending idle threats to every MP in Parliament for over fifteen years with no follow through whatsoever. Dollman’s appearance at the MacIntosh flat can be explained by the fact that he has been attending public mourning activities for MPs for the past five years.”

“But there’s so many things that could give someone a personal motive.”

He stopped peeking around the shrubbery and looked at me. “Really? What else is there?”

“Revenge? Jealousy? An old grudge?”

He resumed poking around in the shrubbery. “Revenge would most likely revolve around the Stonebridge brawl from what I have been able to find. If so, there will be other targets, all of whom should be here tonight. Jealousy or a long-nursed grudge are, of course, possible, but I have found nothing to support them. And you are forgetting an important fact.”

“What’s that?”

“The method of death. Decapitation by some sort of large sword. Not your typical weapon of choice for a normal murderer.”

“A madman could have chosen it.”

We were now in the car park, and he was poking around and examining underneath the cars that were already there. “Doubtful. There have been no other similar murders, so I doubt it is a serial killer, and men who are truly mad usually are not so meticulous about taking care of evidence at a crime scene. No, I think our killer was sending a message.”

“To whom?”

“I’m not sure yet. Someone wants something to change, and killed MacIntosh to show they were serious. I have been watching all of the parliamentary work he was involved in as well as other business transactions and sport involvements, and I have seen nothing stopped, seriously altered, or suddenly approved. In other words, nothing has changed. So I believe the killers may be thinking it is time to send another message.”

“Killers? You believe there is more than one?”

“Obviously, the person who actually did the beheading had a getaway driver. And hackers, and people to block and unblock the road. In other words, it was an organised job. So, yes, definitely more than one.”

He seemed to be satisfied with our surveying of the area, so we started back to the building. “You still think this case ranks as a five? With a full conspiracy?”

“Maybe back up to a six.”

At that moment, my phone rang. It was Lestrade, so I answered it immediately.

“Hello, Greg. Do you have new information for us?”

“I do, but I’m not sure if it’s connected with the case or not. Colin Gidney was sent to hospital today.”

“What?!” I motioned to Sherlock and put my phone on speaker. “What happened?”

“He was working with us this morning. Really quick, that one; if he checks out on a few more tests, I wouldn’t mind having him on my team. He went out for lunch a little after one, nothing unusual there. Next thing I know, I’m getting a call from Bart’s saying he’s been admitted.”

Sherlock, who never thought about anyone’s welfare first, asked, “Do you think it is related to the case?”

“He’ll be okay; he’s already been released, though against the advice of the doctor. One of his injuries was a knife wound to his leg. As to relation to the case, I don’t know. He was in pretty bad shape when I saw him, and for a man of his strength and size to be beaten that badly probably required a number of men. But he reported no crime, and I could find nothing in his personal records or financial transactions that would indicate any reason for  anyone, let alone some sort of a gang, to do this.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, telling me he was thinking hard about something suspicious. “What did he tell you happened?”

“He just said it was a personal matter. Wouldn’t give me any more information than that, though he said he would be back in the morning to resume working on the case, and he seemed even more determined than ever. And one more thing.”

We waited a second, then when he didn’t continue, I asked, “What’s that?”

“He said, ‘please don’t tell Emma. You can tell the doctor, he seems like a good chap, but don’t let Emma find out.”

Sherlock’s hands pressed together in front of his face again, but his moment deep in thought did not last long.

“Thank you, Inspector. We wouldn’t dream of telling her. Keep us apprised of any developments.”

“You’re welcome. Have you—” he was cut off as Sherlock reached over and ended the call. I was too used to his rudeness, as was Lestrade, to bother pursuing the matter.

“What do you make of it?” I asked.

“Obviously Colin Gidney is tied to the trojans that were used at Westminster and the CCTV systems, though probably without his knowledge.”

“Obviously?”

“”Yes, obviously. He has already proved himself adroit in matters of computer security, but since he had no qualms with involvement in this case, I don’t think he knew his code had been used. Today, after examining more closely what had been done, he leaves under the pretence of lunch. I believe it more likely he was confronting those who had misused his code and was beaten badly for his trouble. I hope he has not been coerced to sabotage that portion of the investigation, but if he is still going to push forward on our side, I admire his courage.”

“Oh God. Are you sure we shouldn’t tell Emma? She will be very upset.”

“That’s exactly  why we shouldn’t tell her. It’s been hard enough to get her to cooperate this long. If she finds out about the attack, she will abandon the case immediately.”

“Is that all you care about? The case?”

He looked at me, and I, rather annoyed, remembered with whom I was talking.

We went back into the ballroom where people were starting to arrive. Emma was playing a piece so deep and mournful that I puzzled over how a homebound young lady in her early twenties could have learnt to feel pain and loss like that. Even the other band members, who were now gathered on the dais with her and playing backup, seemed enraptured. 

Servants were already milling about with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres and the chatter, low and respectful, had begun. A few minutes after six, Mrs MacIntosh got up on the dais and spoke a soft word to Emma, who professionally closed out the piece of classical she had been playing. Then Mrs MacIntosh took the microphone, the crowd went silent, and she addressed them.

“My friends and family, thank you so much for coming to bid farewell to Charlie. As you all know, he was a fun-loving, gregarious man, loyal and generous to his friends and family. After the horrors of this week—” She choked up a little and had to collect herself before continuing. “—after this week, I have been strengthened by the well wishes and generosity that he inspired in all of you. And since I couldn’t have that last dance with him, and we all know how much he loved a ball, I am grateful that we could put this together to honour him one more time.”

She raised her glass to the crowd with a smile, though her cheeks were now wet with tears. I looked around the room at the faces and raised glasses. Most were genuinely in mourning. But some…even I could tell that some of the sympathetic smiles were insincere. 

Mrs MacIntosh left the stage and I expected Emma to resume at the piano, but instead she was up, talking to the band members. She even seemed comfortable, which surprised me until I remembered what she had said the night before about hiding behind the facade of Emma Minett, who was gregarious and not afraid of people. Apparently she had already put that face on. 

She left the platform and the band members began to play. It wasn’t the same without the keyboard, but they did an admirable job of filling in the gaps. I turned away from that to once again look around the room, eyeing the guests and keeping tabs on the exits. I didn’t notice anything suspicious in particular, but the night was young. 

Then my attention was drawn to Emma again. She was socialising with the guests. More than socialising—she was charming, even a little flirtatious at times. She was not necessarily the most sparkling person in the room, but small clusters of guests, mostly men, would gather around her as she made her way around the edges, laughing demurely, smiling sweetly, and chattering in a way that seemed to hold their attention. There was a time or two I saw her falter. And sometimes, when she thought no one was watching and she was on my side of the room, I could see signs of strain in her face. But she kept at it, apparently determined to see this through. 

Sherlock was making his rounds as well, but in not nearly so sociable a fashion. He talked to people yes, but for the most part his demeanour was austere, solemn at best. No one seemed drawn to him or stayed long to enjoy his company as they did Emma’s. Which was quite normal for him, of course, but at that point it presented such an interesting contrast.

Most of the time, his look was pensive and I could tell he was reading the entire room. Bored, but alert. I was trying to remain alert as well, I reminded myself. It seemed incredibly banal right now, but at any moment the cry of ‘vatican  cameos’ could burst forth and all hell would break loose. 

There was only so many times I could police the room, though. I was becoming bored. I really wished Mary were there, to talk to and dance with. I said a few words to some of the guests, but as I knew none of them personally and I didn’t have the ability to read everything about their lives in a glance and five words, it felt rather awkward and futile. 

I tried a few hors d’oeuvres, avoided the wine, listened to the music, and tried to stay on my toes. This was honestly the worst part of detective work. The waiting.

After another turn about the room, I looked back to the centre where many of the guests were dancing, and wasn’t as surprised by this point at seeing Emma laughing, talking, and dancing with some gentleman. Until I realised it was Sherlock. 

I couldn’t see his face from my position, but  she  certainly seemed to be enjoying herself. While she had been able to hide her strain most of the evening, right now it seemed to be truly gone. I remembered that the role she had put on was that of his wife, but that couldn’t have accounted for the comfortable ease she seemed to have now. I could not help but scrutinise her behaviour far more closely than I had while she was interacting with everyone else. She seemed more serious at points, more jovial at others, and more  real always. When that song stopped, they continued dancing through the next one. And never, in the whole interaction, did either her chatter or the look of being spoken to stop. 

Sherlock was not good at long conversations. Actually, he wasn’t good at short conversations, either. Any sort of human interaction, really. So when they turned enough for me to see his face, that he was smiling, an honest, real smile, I had to look away. It felt intrusive to stare. I had seen that look so rarely that it was actually almost terrifying. Because I was perhaps one of the only people on earth that knew he was actually capable of caring—something he wouldn’t even admit it to himself. And I knew how terrible it was for him when things went wrong.

So I turned my attention to a tray of hors d’oeuvres and was savouring a particularly nice canape when Sherlock came up to me and I had to swallow quickly. 

“What was that about?” I asked before I could stop myself. Luckily, he seemed focused enough on the case that he didn’t catch my full meaning. At least I don’t think he did.

“Emma has been doing a surprising job of information gathering. For some reason people seem far more eager to speak to her than they do to me.”

I shoved the rest of the canape into my mouth so I could have an excuse not to say anything, and just muttered and nodded.

“Apparently the three less influential Scotsmen whom Edina Mattix was flirting with yesterday—and apparently tonight as well—were Gavin Kenley, Kirkley Field, and Braydon McNelley. Kenley was a good friend of MacIntosh’s who threw the first punch at Stonebridge and worked with him on a committee at the Scottish Rugby Union. The other two also worked with him at the SRU, though I’m not sure how yet.”

I swallowed quickly again. “Kenley threw the first punch? I thought the belief was that most of the blame was placed on MacIntosh?”

“Yes, but that seems to have been more because of his government position and the idea that he could have saved Harwood from jail and other repercussions. It was apparently Kenley who not only threw the first punch, but did most of the brawling. There were a number of pints involved.”

“When isn’t there?”

He gave me that sidelong half grin that had become  de rigeur between us during an investigation. I know we shouldn’t make light at crime scenes, but sometimes we just can’t help it. 

Then I caught motion from the corner of my eye. Very rapid, non-dancing motion. I moved to one side and Sherlock turned around to see what I was seeing.

It was Emma. And she was running full tilt out the opposite side door.

We both lit out after her.

As we ran, I had to ask, “What in the world could she be doing?”

Sherlock didn’t answer because we were having trouble—and causing something of a stir—as we tried to cross the room through the crowd. By the time we made it out the door through which Emma had flown, she was nowhere to be seen. 

“Dammit!” shouted Sherlock, looking around. Then he took off to the right. Trusting in his judgement, I took off after him. 

That’s when we heard the scream.

It was a horrid scream, but what made it worse was how it was cut off at the end. I immediately pulled out my gun. I didn’t think Sherlock could run faster, but I had to increase my speed to keep up with him. He had chosen correctly when he turned right, as the source of the scream was ahead of us, behind the end of the building, toward the skips.

We skidded around the corner and Sherlock switched on his torch immediately. On the ground was a headless body, this time with the head just a couple of metres away. But there was also the sound of a struggle ahead of us, including muffled noises that sounded like a woman with something clamped over her mouth. 

Sherlock ran past the body.

“Sherlock!”

“If you think you can help Gavin Kenley recover from  that , then you are free to stay.” He continued running, and, realising he was right, I ran after him.

We were heading toward the car park, which did not bode well. As we rounded the corner, we were able to see a dark sedan, the driver door just slamming shut, and a man of medium height and fair hair shoving Emma into the back. He had to remove his hand to do so, at which time she yelled, “You bloody prat!” That was all we were able to hear before he jumped into the car after her and the vehicle sped off with screeching tires. Sherlock chased after it until it left the park. I followed, but at a slower speed because it was already obvious there was little chance of catching it and less of a chance of stopping it if we did. And though I tried to read the plates, between mud and poor lighting they were illegible. 

Out of breath, Sherlock spun around and yelled in exasperation to the sky, “Why didn’t we bring a car!”

I put away my gun, pulled out my mobile, and rang the police.

  



	13. Chapter 13 (Emma POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter has a little bit of naughty language. :O

I was an idiot.

If I had the wherewithal to run after Gavin Kenley when I saw him leaving five minutes after Edina Mattix had exited the same door, I should have had the foresight to expect some sort of violence and not have screamed when his head was lopped off. But no, I screamed, and there had been someone else there who had grabbed me before I could even finish. I was an idiot. I had been becoming too comfortable with this ‘detective’ thing. 

I had fought as best I could, but even Colin’s training wasn’t enough to allow me to escape. I was dragged to a car and shoved in. I suspect they would have shoved me into the boot if they had time, but they were probably too anxious in case my scream had alerted anyone. 

Once I and my captor were in the vehicle, he pushed me to the other side roughly, swearing the entire time.

“Shut up!” yelled the driver as we tore out of the car park. “SHUT UP! Let me think!” His accent was American, and he was large and athletic, with a shaved head, but that’s all I could tell in the dim light from behind.

The man in the back, obviously cowed by his larger companion, stopped swearing. 

After a couple of minutes, the driver started to get his head together. “Put something over her eyes. We can’t have her seeing where we’re going.”

“We don’t have any blindfolds! What am I supposed to cover her eyes with, Stu?”

“Don’t use my name, moron! Just rip off part of your shirt! And tie up her hands, too.” The two of them most definitely were not career criminals. Nor had they expected any kind of interference, apparently.

The smaller man—who was definitely Scottish, and had short, spiky blond hair—nodded sheepishly and ripped the bottom of his shirt off, binding it over my eyes, after which I heard him ripping off a great deal more which he used to bind my hands behind me, double thick. I don’t know why they bothered. I was a full witness to their murdering Gavin Kenley, and now they had me. They couldn’t let me go, so they couldn’t let me live. I just don’t think they realised it yet. 

Not that being killed was a real threat to me, but it would produce all sorts of uncomfortable questions. I could show up to others and tell them I had escaped. But these two would have seen by body disappear, and would either go mad when they saw me at trial, destroy my credibility, or raise enough questions to put me into a secret government lab for centuries. It was not a good situation for me. 

It was tensely silent the rest of our race through the streets of Edinburgh.

Ever since I had sworn at my captor when he had first taken his hand from my mouth, I hadn’t said a word. I think it was unnerving them, but I knew there was nothing I could say that would persuade them to release me. Plead for my life, swearing I wouldn’t tell? They couldn’t risk believing me. Threatening them that they wouldn’t get away with it? Patently ridiculous, especially when I was already in their power. That would be like asking them to kill me right now.

Instead, I sat back and tried to figure out what to do. I again felt incredibly stupid for not having had my wits about me to open the car door before my hands had been bound. I spent a few moment struggling against my bonds, but the man next to me hit me, hard, in the arm for my trouble. Then I spent a few moments trying to more subtly reach the knot of the tied shirt with my fingers, but I couldn’t reach it. I had long cursed my short fingers while playing piano. Now, even more so.

We were driving for quite a while—over thirty minutes by my estimation—so I suspected we were leaving Edinburgh proper, to where there would be fewer witnesses. Probably someplace relatively abandoned. 

The drive gave me time to think. Escape was the only viable solution. There was the possibility that Sherlock and John would find me. After all, that was along the lines of what they did for a living. But I couldn’t rely on that. I had given Sherlock information on Edina Mattix, but I hadn’t known about these two men, and I doubt he had known about them either. Plus, right now my captors were working unplanned and probably without her input. So even if Sherlock and John questioned Miss Mattix, they wouldn’t be able to find out where we were going.  If she gave up her henchmen, and  if the henchmen went somewhere familiar or logical to them that Sherlock could deduce, there might be a chance. But I suspected she was far too cunning to give them up.

My thoughts went back to the ball. It had been a bit nerve wracking, of course. But I had been surprised at how much easier it was to put on the face of Emma Minett and socialise competently than it had been even yesterday. Not nearly as terrifying or terrible as I had expected, and I was surprised at how much the old socialising skills I had learnt so long ago came back to me. I was still clumsy, and not a social virtuoso by any means. But perhaps not as completely incompetent as I had convinced myself I was, either.

Heath Dollman had never even showed, as I had suspected he would not. He was a Londoner, and though he liked to make threats, his history showed a lack of real action. Coming all the way to Edinburgh would have been way too much bother. Duncan Harwood, Leslie Meston, and Payton McAlexander had all come. They were all Scotland-based, and Christi had specially invited them, so I wasn’t really surprised. But tonight, they seemed to show less schadenfreude. I suspected it had taken a day for the initial shock and gloating over the death of their common enemy to turn into a sober realisation that decapitation was not a meet fate for a pub row. 

Edina Mattix, however, seemed more focused than ever. And I had noticed her eyes on Sherlock more than once, in a dour, contemplative way that told me she knew who he was, which meant she knew why he was there. And she didn’t like it. 

Some of this I had noticed while I performed, but I had become more and more anxious that I was on stage and not helping. I was exceedingly glad that the band members were able and willing to play without a keyboardist, allowing me to mingle for a few minutes. I had planned on rejoining the band after I had made my rounds and reported to Sherlock, but obviously I had no chance of that now.

That brought my train of thought to talking with Sherlock. It hadn’t just been reporting in. It had been surprisingly pleasant. And he was a shockingly good dancer. 

After I had told him what I had found, he looked at me oddly. 

“How do you get them to open up so easily?”

I laughed. “It really isn’t that easy. It takes a bit of effort at trying to imagine how they would like to be treated and talked to.”

His eyes narrowed. “They all want the same thing: to think they are wonderful and that everyone should agree with them.”

I gave a tiny shrug. “Not always. And if you speak to them with  that sort of attitude, they won’t open up at all.”

“Why not, if I tell them what they want to hear?”

“Even ordinary people can usually tell when you are being insincere.”

“No they can’t.”

I laughed. “You underestimate them.”

He rolled his eyes but spun me around simultaneously, which rather me off guard and nearly made me stumble. He grinned broadly at me and it made me laugh again.

“What I’m saying is, if you find  something to like about them, some way to understand them even a little bit, then that little bit of sincerity greases the wheels.”

He grunted. “I do try to understand them. Well, mostly read them, and tell them what I see. And they hate it.”

I laughed again. “Of course they do! That’s not trying to get to know them. That’s like saying you already do, which puts them into a position of vulnerability, particularly when they know nothing about you. And it’s not caring about them, which is the kind of understanding they want. It’s about  you  showing off and controlling the situation. Though….” I leaned in and said softly, “I find it fascinating when you do it. And a little validating when I’ve seen the same things. I so rarely get to find out if I’m right.”

“You don’t think I should just piss off?”

I looked at him with shock. “Of course not! It’s just your manner that’s off-putting, and I can deal with that. But I’m something of a social outcast myself, so what do I know?”

He beamed at me. It was the most sincere smile I had ever seen from him. “You realise this is the second song we’ve danced to?”

I blushed a little. “Is it? I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

The road became rough, rattling the car and shaking me back to the present. The driver swore and slowed our speed while I cursed myself for becoming distracted and failing to focus on a means of escape. I really wished I were more knowledgeable about escape techniques, but I also realised that would probably mean I needed to experience more captivity, so maybe I didn’t wish to know more after all. 

It was only then that I realised I was not scared. I had not been frightened since I had seen Kinley’s head go flying. Upset with myself, annoyed, angry, yes. But scared? No. Longevity had taught me patience. Being clumsy had inured me to small injuries. And dying seven times had dulled my fear of death. Only interacting with strangers or being around large numbers of people unnerved me in the extreme. I almost laughed out loud at how ridiculous I was.

The car slowed to a stop, the engine was turned off, and I heard one car door open and shut, then another. Talking outside the car, too soft and muffled for me to make out the words. Then the door next to me opened, engulfing me in cold air and the smell of freshly ploughed earth and cattle manure. A farm. And not a very active one, since they pulled me out of the car without removing my blindfold or my bonds, which would have drawn unwanted attention anywhere there might have been people. The ground was hard and uneven. It seemed like it had once been gravelled, but now only a few pebbles remained. 

They pushed me along roughly, but, as I was blind as well as blunderous, I stumbled twice before we reached wherever we were headed, making the big man groan in frustration. After the second fall, which scraped up my face and elbows and made my lip bleed because I could not catch myself with my hands, he and the other grabbed my arms by the elbows and half-forced, half-carried me into a barn. I was annoyed at the injuries, but I have had much worse, so I still maintained my silence. I wasn’t completely sure that was best, but as I saw no advantage in talking or crying out, I held to it. 

I could tell it was a barn because of the sound of a large door scraping against dirt as it opened, the smell of old wood and rusted metal from the outside, and the same smell along with a strong smell of hay, must, and old manure on the inside. The way our steps and other sounds reverberated told me the space inside was relatively large. 

My captors walked me quite a number of steps in, and I was turned a bit to the left—probably back into a corner. They cursed the darkness and the fact that they had not brought a torch. Then they had me stand there for a moment while they rummaged around for something, and I was forced to sit on a bale with stiff bits of straw that pricked into my legs and backside. 

“You sure this place is abandoned?” It was the smaller one again. 

“Did you even  look at it? Hasn’t been painted in forever. It’s falling apart. Trust me, it’s abandoned. Here, I’ll show you.”

I heard the sound of something heavy hitting wood that broke with an immediate crack and splinter. “See? Totally rotting to pieces.”

The smell of the hay—which was quite fresh—told me it was probably not completely abandoned, but again, I said nothing.

Then for the first time since my capture, I was addressed. It was Stu. 

“What were you thinking, lady? Why were you so stupid, following Kenley out like that? You’ve f--d everything up and now I have to deal with it.”

He was upset, obviously. But he was also scared. Not only was he not a career criminal, he had been coerced—though probably not forced or threatened—into killing MacIntosh and Kenley. Killing me was something he did not want to do, but now he was starting to understand there weren’t many other options. 

He spoke to the one with the spiky hair. “Stay here and watch her. Make sure she doesn’t do anything else stupid. And see if you can find a lantern or something. I’ve got to make a phone call.”

As I pressed my lips together to stop the bleeding, I heard him walk away, open the door, and close it behind him, so he was much harder to hear. Still, every few seconds I heard him swear outside, each time from a different location, and sometimes I couldn’t hear him at all. Apparently, he was having trouble getting a mobile signal. The smaller one didn’t sound like he was making much of an effort to find a lamp, and I was glad because any noise he made would have obscured any useful sounds.

I’m not sure Stu realised that when he finally found a mobile signal that he was relatively close to the corner where I was being held. Or that the single layer of wood wasn’t enough to completely obscure his words. 

“Can you hear me? Good, the signal out here is shit, took me five minutes to find a signal…. I’m out in the middle of f-ing nowhere, that’s where I am. We have a problem….They what?! You mean someone  saw us take her? … Did they see me or Stiles? … What about plate numbers? …Well, that’s good at least. … Uh, you say his name like that’s supposed to mean something to me. … No, I don’t read the crime section of the paper, why would I? … Now’s a fine time to bring that up, Edina! But it doesn’t matter. I didn’t even go to anyplace familiar to me at all. I just drove around until I found a farm that looked abandoned. I bet even this ‘great detective’ you’re talking about couldn’t find us out here. Hell, even I’m not completely sure where we are.”

So Sherlock had seen them take me? That much was good, at least. I think. If what he said was correct, though, they would have a hard time tracking us down. But I couldn’t think about it much because Stu was still talking. 

“I don’t want to kill her, Edina. It doesn’t move the plan forward at all. … Yes, I know she’s a witness, but you know I don’t like the killing. I really don’t. … Don’t tell me I’m good at it, that doesn’t make me feel better! … Yes, you’re right. … I know, baby, I know. … You really want to come all the way out here? … You’re right, that’s a good idea. … I don’t know the addess, but we’re out in Peaston. Just take A68 southeast to A6093, turn left, then B6371. Past a couple of neighbourhoods a ways, you’ll see a big ol’ barn on the right along a dirt road. That’s where we’re holed up. … OK, I’ll move it. Thanks, baby. See you soon.”

So that’s how she did it. I wondered how long Edina Mattix had been grooming him as her lover to get him to go so far as to murder two people and possibly more. Because one thing I was sure about—she didn’t give a fig about him. 

But now I had a couple of advantages. One, I knew she was coming out here, probably to convince him of the foolishness of his reluctance to kill me. So hopefully I had at least that long before they really took action. But more importantly was that I now had an idea where I was. They still hadn’t bound my legs, so if I could just get the blindfold off and either incapacitate or thoroughly distract my captors before Edina got here, I might have a chance. Even though we were in the middle of nowhere, Stu had mentioned a couple of neighbourhoods that didn’t seem that far away, and I now knew which direction they lay in. 

I heard the door open and shut again, and Stiles asked, “What’d she say?”

“She’s coming out here. Gonna question this baggage we picked up and we’ll work things out.” 

“Oh, okay. That’s good. That’s good, right?”

“Yeah, it’s good. Couldn’t find a lantern, eh? Guess we’ll have to sit in the dark for a bit.” There was a pause, then, “You did good work out there, kid. You dealt with something we weren’t expecting, and you did it real quick. That was real helpful. You did good work.”

I could imagine the spiky-haired young man beaming. They seemed to have a sort of balanced friendship—Stu was bigger and smarter and probably older, so he took care of Stiles, and Stiles idolised Stu. It might have been sweet, in other circumstances. 

But I was using their friendly moment, wherein I hoped they were distracted from me, to try to back myself against a wall so that perhaps I could use the wall to work the blindfold off. From their words and what little light had filtered through the blindfold, I could tell that the barn was crepuscular at best. I hoped the fact that I was back in the corner would further conceal my actions. 

Stiles started talking again. “Tell me more about football. I want to know more so I’ll be ready.”

I was very glad he was talking, because as I tried to scoot the straw bale back, it was making much more noise than I wanted it to. 

“Do you remember what they call the pitch?”

“A field. That one’s easy.”

“That’s right. And what do they call the ball?”

“Um…porkskin?”

“Close. Pigskin.”

These short questions and answers worried me that the conversation would end at any moment and their attention would turn back to me. I was trying not to panic or move so quickly that I made costly mistakes, but it was very hard. I could tell by the sound and the feel of the air that I was close to the wall, though, and that gave me hope.

“How many players per team?”

“Eleven, right? Eleven!”

I was a little over-eager, and must have moved my straw bale too far, too fast. I don’t know if they heard the noise of the bale moving, but it didn’t matter. I hit something on the ground with such force that the bale, which apparently was old enough that the bindings were rotting, started to fall apart and lean towards the back, tipping me over. With my hands tied behind me, combined with my natural bungling, I couldn’t even slow my tumble. I hit the wall loudly, causing a number of tools to come crashing down around me. 

Before the tools finished falling, I heard both men exclaim out in alarm, but I also heard something I hadn’t expected…the loud  crack of wood splitting and the sound of something heavy moving over me. This barn had a hay loft. And somehow I had disrupted it. 

There was a creak, another crack, then a huge rustling  fwump,  a clatter of old boards and beams, and a scream that was cut off almost as soon as it began. The two men were buried. At least I hoped they were. I could hear them trying to free themselves, so I had to work quickly. I was sure they would be so angry when they escaped that they might not wait for Edina to arrive before they killed me. 

I was now on the ground, scraped up even more and I was sure my arm was bleeding pretty well from one of the tools—but that was good. It meant one of the tools was sharp. It only took me a few seconds to find a keen edge of metal. After a bit of repositioning, I was able to get the strips of shirt at my wrists up to the metal, and work the thin cloth against the tool until the bands broke. I cut my wrists a few more times in the process, but I didn’t care. I ripped off the blindfold, picked myself up, and took an urgent assessment of the room. It was ill-lit, but there was some sort of light source outside, and the tiny beams of light that slipped between the slats of the walls were just enough to get my bearings and see vague shapes to avoid, such as the sizable mound of hay that now dominated the floor. I ran towards the door as quickly as I could, stumbling only once in the dark.

The struggles of the two men were getting louder as they worked to free themselves, and they were infuriated. I pushed the door open as quickly as I could, just enough to let myself squeak through, and ran. 

I was overjoyed at the single lamp on a tall post near the barn. It had not only given me just enough light to be able to find my way out of the barn, it now lit my way well enough that I could see the road leading to civilisation. But I wasn’t fifty feet down it before I realised this would make tracking and chasing me down in the car far too easy. I had to get off the road. 

Cursing my slow wit and my heeled shoes, I veered left into a field of tall weeds. Stu had said that you turned right on the dirt road after a few neighbourhoods to find the barn. That meant my best chance at finding one of those neighbourhoods, or at least a house with people in it, was to my left. 

I had smelled freshly ploughed fields when we had arrived, so it felt fortuitous that this particular field was either abandoned or lying fallow this season. That is, until I realised the ground was very rocky and uneven and the weeds in the darkness made it very hard to navigate, especially with any speed. After my third tumble, I ripped off my heels and flung them across the field, then resumed my flight. I wasn’t sure that had made the going any easier. The rocks, dried weeds, and thistles were agonising, and after fifty more yards my feet were raw. But I did fall less and make better time. 

After I had gone perhaps another hundred yards, I heard the distant sounds of two angry men behind me, a car door slam, and the start of an engine. My heart was already thumping like mad and I thought my lungs would burst, but I picked up my pace. 

Then, through a break in the weeds, I saw it. A house light. I inspected the route before me in an instant, finding the quickest and most obstacle-free path, and took off as fast as I could run.

I was very blessed that my body hadn’t changed much, if any, over the last two hundred years, because I know its youth and resilience gave me a huge advantage. I was also extremely grateful for Colin’s insistence on my training every morning to make me at least somewhat fit. I had to remember to thank him for his foresight when I saw him next. 

The light came from a lamp by the door of an older cottage of stone, thatch, and moss, with two steps up to the front door and a noisy set of wind-chimes hanging from the eaves. As I drew closer, however, I realised with a stroke of terror that I couldn’t see much light within. Still, I stumbled up the steps and pounded on the door. I had to try. Because if I couldn’t get help here, I doubted I could make it to another dwelling before my captors caught up with me. 

Answering the door was taking too long. I was panicking as I pounded on the door again. Could I break in if no one was home? Would there even be a phone? If there was no one home, and no phone, would the house be a protection or a noose? I set a limit to wait for a response. Five more seconds. If no one came to the door in five more seconds, I would run again.

One….

Two….

I could hear a car coming closer. Very close. They were checking all of the drives along the road and had turned up the one leading to this house.

Three….

Four….

I heard the glorious, heavy sound of a steel lock grinding open, and the door opened just enough for me to see an older man, probably in his sixties, peeking out. He was in his pyjamas, and his eyes grew wide when he saw me.

“Please,” I pleaded, “I’ve just escaped from a couple of blackguards and they are coming for me.”

He opened the door wide, turned his head around and yelled, “Effie! Call the police and put the kettle on to boil!” Then he motioned me in and shut the door quickly behind me. 

“You look a fright, miss! Please, sit down.” He pointed to an old stuffed chair. 

“Thank you, don’t mind if I do.” I hobbled to the chair and collapsed into it.


	14. Chapter 14 (Emma's POV)

Sherlock was livid when I insisted that we had to stay until the police came, reviewed the scene, and allowed us to leave. He was even more angry when I told him we should tell them about Emma’s abduction and then offer our assistance, rather than just taking off after her ourselves. It was not London, where, for better or worse, the police already knew him and his idiosyncrasies, but still gave him leeway because of a proven history of solving crimes. 

“But Kenley is already dead! Our murderers, our witness, and other potential victims are  that way!” He gesticulated forcefully toward the road down which the car had driven, but I was firm. 

“The police will be here before any cab could be, and I am quite sure they would not allow any cabs to be leaving.”

He grimaced and spat, “Hateful,  hateful laws, pedantic policies, and the idiots who enforce them!”

“Just, please, don’t let them hear you say that when they get here.”

I proceeded to turn my back to his pacing and general irritability. I knew he also felt guilt for our failure to protect Emma. He had told her there would be little physical risk. Now here was this timid young woman in one of the most terrifying situations imaginable, and I could not even contemplate how petrified with anxiety and dread she must be. If she were still alive. Though one thing didn’t make sense. With her praxis of timidity, why in the world would she have run after Kenley if she had thought he were in danger?

But I was also concerned with the question of whether I should call Colin Gidney to apprise him of his employer’s abduction. He had just left hospital after sustaining serious injuries of his own. Telling him would naturally distress him, more so because there would be little to nothing he could do about it. But not telling him seemed furtive and high-handed—keeping important information from him for his protection, as though he were a child. 

I turned back to Sherlock, who had ceased to pace and was instead thinking intensely with his hands pressed together in front of his face.

“I’m calling Colin Gidney,” I told him, “I’m going to tell him what’s happened.”

Sherlock waved me on, without looking at me. “Fine, fine.”

I rang up Gidney’s mobile. It was getting to be late, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. He answered after the first ring, and I could tell he hadn’t been sleeping.

“Colin? I’m afraid we’ve had some trouble.”

Tension was immediately obvious in his voice. “What’s happened?”

“There’s been another murder. Another decapitation. And…” I was suddenly even more reluctant to tell the next part. Usually when we delivered bad news, it had a sort of finality to it. It was horrid, yes, but it was an end. This sort of news had a lot of anxiety to plan on for a while yet. “Emma saw it coming before we did. She ran after them. She had been far closer than we were, so—”

“Oh God.”

“She’s still alive, Colin, as far as we know. But they’ve taken her.”

“Oh God. Do you know where they took her?”

“Not at this point. We can’t leave the murder scene just yet. But I’m sure we’ll find her quickly. Sherlock is the best at this, you know.”

There was a pause. “I’m coming up there.”

“There’s no need, Colin—”

“Yes there is! I’m supposed to take care of her and I didn’t! I’m coming up there!”

“But you were injured today!”

“The left leg is the worst, but I only need that to clutch so I will be fine. And traffic should be light.” He laughed bitterly at his last comment, then added, “I’ll be up there in a few hours. Ring me if you have news.” 

“We will.”

I rang off and sighed. Things were not going according to plan. Not that they often did in this line of work, but it still wasn’t pleasant.

We were still standing near the exit of the car park where Sherlock had given up on chasing the murderers on foot. But now Sherlock started walking back toward Kenley’s body and said without looking at me, “We should take a look at the crime scene before the police arrive.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’m going back inside to tell Mrs MacIntosh what’s happened and make sure no one leaves. Though whoever lured Kenley outside is probably long gone.”

Sherlock kept walking. “No, she’ll be there. Her disappearance around the time of the murder would have been suspicious otherwise.”

“She?”

Sherlock stopped and turned back to me. “Edina Mattix.”

I paused. “That was the person Emma said you should add to the list, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock looked annoyed, especially with himself. “Yes. She saw another layer to her I somehow didn’t catch. She was focusing on her with her observations tonight, which I thought was premature, but it might explain why she ran out after Kenley, as he was one of the less powerful men Mattix had been flirting with. In which case, Emma was right to suspect her.”

“How could she have seen something you didn’t?”

He looked away and worked his mouth like he was tasting something bitter. “She was observant. But I think her inside knowledge of women gave her an advantage.”

I wanted to smile, but I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t. 

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Gloating.”

“Why would I be gloating?”

“Because you like it when I am humbled.”

“Are you really humbled?”

“Chagrined, yes. Humbled, not really.”

“Then I’m not gloating.”

We parted, but as soon as I turned away, I beamed like the cat that caught the canary.

The ball was still in full swing when I entered the room, which was actually kind of shocking considering all that had just transpired outside. The music and the chatter must have drowned out any of Emma’s scream that might have been able to penetrate the walls. I found Mrs MacIntosh quickly.

“Mrs MacIntosh, we need to lock down the room, and quickly. No one can leave.”

Shock and apprehension took over her whole demeanour. “Why? What’s happened?”

I was loath to tell her, but I knew it was necessary. Still, I said it very softly. “There’s been another murder and Miss Bedingfield’s been taken.”

She dropped her drink and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh!” She had to find a chair to sit in. “Who was it?”

“Gavin Kenley.”

“Oh God! He was a good friend of Charlie’s! He worked with him at the  SRU, and even was with him in that row at Stonebridge. It has to be connected!”

“He was killed in the same way, so, probably, yes.”

“But why would they take Emma?”

“She saw something suspicious and left to investigate, so she saw the murder, and they saw her. They caught her and carried her off.”

The look of anxiety on Mrs Macintosh’s face intensified. “Do you think they’ll hurt her? She’s such a sweet young lady!”

To be honest, they had no reason to keep her alive and many reasons not to. But instead I said, “We don’t know yet. The police have already been called and we’ll get to finding her right away.”

She nodded and just sort of sat there, stupefied, for a number of moments before I cleared my throat. That didn’t rouse her to action, so I said, “Um, Mrs MacIntosh? About locking down the room?”

“Oh! I’m sorry! I already forgot. I’ll get a few of the men I trust to watch the doors and I’ll make an announcement.” She rose firmly, took a deep breath in through her nose, and began walking towards a cluster of her friends. 

I hesitated, then cautioned, “Be discreet, Mrs MacIntosh. We don’t wish to cause a panic.”

She turned back to me with a small smile, but her eyes drooped and were already becoming red. “Always.”

I scanned the room as she talked to a few men around the room discreetly and they made their way to the doors. I was a little worried about how the crowd would react to the lock down, and how discreet Mrs MacIntosh would be. The latter part I needn’t have worried about. I forgot I was dealing with a politician’s wife. After the doors were manned, she made her way to the dais, silenced the band, and took the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, her smile only the slightest bit tense. “I’m sorry, but there’s been an incident outside. We need everyone to stay in the building for now. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but we’ll keep the music and the drinks coming, so it will be almost as though nothing had happened.”

There was a rise in chatter, and many heads rose above the crowd to look around. A few faces even seemed a little worried, especially after they saw the men guarding the doors. But there was no panic. That, at least, was a relief. The music resumed, and people already seemed to be starting to relax again.

I looked around the room again, wondering if I could recognise Edina Mattix by her behaviour. But I saw no one who seemed on edge or unusually worried, and I saw no suspicious behaviour that made me feel I needed to pull out my gun again. So I walked back to the edge of the platform where Mrs MacIntosh was just coming back down. 

“You did a splendid job, Mrs MacIntosh. I imagine there may be more unrest when the police come in and begin questioning the guests, but that can’t be helped. They seem at ease for now.”

Her voice had the low assurance of one who had handled difficult social situations for years. “I will do all I can to help find Charlie’s killer. And now Gavin’s.” Her bottom lip trembled momentarily and her eyes began to shimmer wetly, but she quickly composed herself. “How else may I help, Dr Watson?” 

“If you could tell to one of your friends acting as a doorman that myself and Sherlock should be able to come and go as needed, it would be most beneficial. I’m sure the police are here by now, and I need to assist.”

She swallowed and nodded, then I followed her to a door and within moments was outside again. It was quite cold, and I remembered with a tightness in my gut that Emma had only been wearing that thin, sleeveless gown when she had run from the ballroom. I sincerely hoped she was okay. 

The flashing lights from numerous police cars were lighting the car park, and I could already hear Sherlock arguing with at least one of the officers down by Kenley’s body. I sighed and followed the noise. Sherlock’s irate voice was unmistakable. 

“What kind of idiot would kill someone, call the police, and then wait until they arrived to talk with them voluntarily?”

“A very clever idiot.”

I winced. The officer’s voice sounded very sure of himself, but I didn’t have to see Sherlock’s face or hear his voice to know that the officer had just increased Sherlock’s ire ten fold.

“And would this ‘clever idiot’ also be able to hide a large sword while he waited for the police? I tell you, the murderers have taken a woman who was a witness to the murder and her life is in immediate danger. They were driving a charcoal grey 2010 Vauxhall Astra sedan registered in Scotland.  The ‘S’ at the start of the tag was all that was legible . It was purchased used, and the driver is too tall for the seat. If she dies because of your stupidity, I will see to it that you lose more than your job.”

I reached them about this time, but I was paid little heed. A female officer with short dark hair came up then, holding a phone out to the officer arguing with Sherlock.

“DI Lestrade from Scotland Yard to speak with you, sir.”

Sherlock threw his head back. “Finally!”

The conversation with Lestrade was brief, and I couldn’t help but wonder exactly what was said as I watched the officer’s face turn from incredulity, to mortification, to exasperation, then back to mortification, all with many glances toward Sherlock. He thanked Lestrade and rang off. 

“It seems you have friends in high places, Mr Holmes. Lestrade not only said you were not a suspect, he told me to listen to everything you have to say.”

Sherlock’s voice was firm and dark and deceptively quiet. “Then give me an officer and a car so that I can go after the men who did this. You can have people here gathering evidence all night if you wish. But the car with the murderers, and another potential victim, sped off from here twelve minutes ago and we are losing precious time.”

The officer, a man who looked no older than his early thirties, swallowed heavily and nodded, then turned to his men. “Leaper!” A uniformed young woman with long blond hair clipped at the base of her neck jumped when her superintendent barked her name. She had been taking photographs, but now she came over to take orders. She seemed very eager to please. 

“Leaper, this is Mr Holmes and—” he held his hand out towards me and addressed me directly, “I assume you are the Dr Watson that Lestrade mentioned?”

I nodded and took his hand and shook it brusquely. “Yes, sir.” He nodded in return and continued.

“Holmes and Watson are going to be assisting us in this investigation, specifically, in helping to rescue the female witness to the crime who was carried off by the attackers. They need assistance and transportation. Can you handle that?”

“Sir, yes sir!” Her posture was unusually straight and her demeanour especially disciplined. She handed the camera off to one of her colleagues, then addressed Sherlock. “If you gentlemen will follow me.”

She led us back to the car park and a police car with its top lights still flashing. Once we were out of earshot of her superior, she smiled and said, “Don’t worry. Not everyone in Scotland is unaware of the reputation of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. My name is Anne Leaper. You can call me Anne, or Leaper, I don’t care.”

“So you don’t get along with your superintendent?” asked Sherlock as Leaper opened the car door. 

“Not particularly. But in this case, I’m  chuffed to bits . He probably views working with you as a punishment.”

Sherlock gave her his wry half-smile as he got into the passenger side of the vehicle, leaving the back for me.

“Where to, sir?”

“Not sure yet. Need you to run some plates.”

“I thought we didn’t have the registration number?”

“We don’t. But we have the first part of the local memory tag, there was no EU identifier, and we know the make, model, year, and colour of the vehicle, as well as a few traits of the driver. From that we should be able to narrow down the identity of the owner significantly, and as long as the vehicle isn’t stolen, that should give us some clues to where he would have gone.”

She nodded and pulled up the appropriate information on her dashboard computer. The two of them worked diligently, with me taking notes where needed, but it took a full twenty minutes—every one adding to Sherlock’s agitation and impatience—before they were able to narrow the search to a single person. 

“Stewart Burwick!” In an instant he had pulled up all sorts of information about the man on his phone. “We need to head southeast.”

As Anne started the car, she commanded politely, “Do up your belts, please,” then accelerated from the car park at such a pace that I’m sure Sherlock was relieved. While Sherlock seemed to generally prefer cabs over police vehicles, there were definite advantages to being in a car with a siren and a flashing light on top. 

As she drove, she addressed Sherlock again. “His license says he lives in Kirkliston. That’s northwest of here. You think he’s headed in the opposite direction to throw us off?”

Sherlock didn’t look up from his phone. “Precisely. I doubt he had a backup plan for such a hindrance as an eye witness and hostage, and since I am sure he is merely acting as a henchman, he wouldn’t have the acumen to be terribly creative with his getaway route. Take the bypass.”

Anne nodded and directed us expertly in that direction. 

Sherlock was fixed on target and in his element in the chase. I had seen it many times before. But there was something else as well. Something subtle. I couldn’t put a finger on it. More irritated? More impatient? Those things were almost ubiquitous aspects of his personality anyway, so it was difficult to really tell.

We took the bypass east until it merged into the A1 at Monktonhall, at which point we turned right, keeping to the southeast theory. “We’re looking for the most remote or abandoned roads and structures we can find.” Sherlock’s instruction was brief and clear, but I doubted either Anne or I would discern any worthwhile clues ahead of his all-seeing eye. We had been on the road for thirty minutes now, and even I was checking my watch nervously. “Southeast” was not a very precise search range, and it was starting to feel like the proverbial needle in a haystack. Even though having Sherlock leading the search was like having a magnet, you still had to go through a lot of hay. 

Sherlock was positively on edge. He could keep neither his hands nor his legs still. On the occasions where Anne or I would suggest a route or a location to check, his response was almost always negative and snippy. After forty five minutes of driving broken by only the occasional search of an abandoned farm or hidden glen, his frustration and anger peaked with an angry outburst. 

“Turn around. They wouldn’t have come this far. We’ve taken the wrong road and lost even more precious time. Dammit, turn around!”

Anne reversed the direction of the car with great alacrity, but I knew no humanly possible speed would satisfy Sherlock at this point. I had seen him like this only a couple of times before, but I knew that it would be unwise to say anything. Anne was wise enough to stay silent as well. 

But two minutes back toward the bypass, Leaper’s phone rang, and she answered it hands-free, allowing us all to hear.

“Any news, sir?”

“Yes, we’ve found her.” His voice was pretentiously smug. Sherlock immediately took over the conversation. 

“Where is she?”

“Peaston, of all places. Apparently she was able to escape her captors and ended up at a little farmhouse.”

Sherlock was in no mood to tolerate the officer’s vainglory. “Then you didn’t find her at all.  She seems to have found  you.”

When the officer responded after a brief pause, he was annoyed and a bit deflated. “I’ve sent officers and an ambulance out there, but I’m sure the murderers are long gone by now. Leaper, I’m sending you the address.”

“Was she—” Sherlock stopped when we heard the unmistakable click of the officer ringing off. 

Leaper checked the address. “It’s only fifteen minutes from here. We weren’t far off, just went a little too far on the bypass.”

But Sherlock was angry at his miscalculation. It had taken me years, but I had learnt that while Sherlock appeared unflaggingly arrogant most of the time, it was because he expected perfection. When he failed to obtain perfection in any aspect of an investigation, no one took more recrimination from him than himself.

Before we had gone much further, I called Colin to tell him Emma had been found and that, as far as we knew, she was all right. He was understandably relieved, as he was still nearly five hours away, but he was determined to continue on and meet us as soon as he could. It was just as well, I thought. This may be pretty much solved by the time he got here. 

It wasn’t hard to spot the farmhouse from the road, even though it sat a couple hundred metres off of A68. The surrounding countryside was so sparsely populated that the flashing lights of emergency vehicles could be seen from well over a kilometre away. The drive was rough and unpaved, so Leaper drove slowly. There were two police vehicles and an ambulance out front, all with flashing lights and empty seats. We hadn’t even quite stopped before Sherlock jumped from the car and ran to the house, opening the door and going inside without so much as a warning knock. 

I took a little more time, noticing on my way to the door that the back of the ambulance was open, but there was no one there. Anne was right behind me. Even though Sherlock had just burst in, I knocked on the door before entering.

Emma turned and addressed me immediately. “John, will you please tell Sherlock that I’m perfectly fine? He doesn’t seem to believe me.”

Sherlock was pacing and agitated, not half a metre in front of her, and I could see why he had been incredulous. Emma was sitting in an old, overstuffed chair against the wall to our right. Her feet were wrapped in gauze up on a footstool. The EMTs were just finishing stitching a large gash in her left arm, her dress was torn and bloodied, and her face was scraped up with purple bruises starting to mottle the right side. Two police officers were in the far corner, consulting over notes I guessed had been taken from her. 

“Oh my God, Emma! Are you sure you’re all right?”

She actually started laughing. Laughing! And it wasn’t the nervous, ‘I’m so relieved I don’t know how else to react’ sort of laugh. It was a ‘why doesn’t anyone believe me?’ sort of laugh. I think she would have said more, but Sherlock burst in instead.

“What were you thinking?!”

She was affronted. “I beg your pardon?”

“Running off like that after Kenley without anyone with you! That has to be the single most idiotic thing—”

But she cut him off with a stern aplomb that shocked me. “Hold your tongue, sir. This is a murder, now a double murder, investigation, and I was asked to assist. So I assisted. I am not some helpless child in need of coddling and protection. I doubt either you or Dr Watson would have waited for backup if you thought someone’s life was in imminent danger.”

“You could barely even talk to us at Scotland Yard yesterday, practically had to be blackmailed into joining the investigation, become terrified at the idea of being in a room of generally benign strangers, and now you’re trying to tell me you don’t need or want protection? You are making no sense whatsoever!”

An older woman, undoubtedly one of the owners of the house, walked in front of Emma’s chair with quiet and penitent steps and set a tray with tea and biscuits on the coffee table. She motioned me to the couch to my right, and after assessing the situation, I accepted and sat. This not only had the potential to take a while, but it promised to be rather interesting. It was now Emma’s turn to respond to Sherlock’s volley, and she did so with vigour.

“Really? Being afraid of one thing—social interactions with strangers—does not automatically make me timid and weak in  all things.” The medics had finished stitching her arm—in fact, everyone in the room was now staring, rapt at the argument—and she stood to face him, though her feet had to hurt and she was easily thirty centimetres shorter. “I know I’m inexperienced. I know I’m clumsy. But someone needed help, and I was the only one to see it, so I had to be the one to help. It’s why I ran to the alley on Clifford Street, and why I ran after Kenley tonight. Nothing you or anyone else says will ever stop me.”

“Colin was with you on Clifford Street. Tonight there was no one. You shouldn’t have gone out there alone, without a weapon or the ability to deal with someone you  knew was large, strong, and unprincipled enough to decapitate someone in a single blow.” 

“Are you saying that because I’m smaller and physically weaker that I am useless? Or is it because I am a female? I have spent most of my life being told to sit back and let the men take care of things. That I wasn’t worth even listening to. But if I am to be useful in this investigation  at all —something you have already tried to convince me I could be—then that sort of thinking needs to stop right now.”

Sherlock seemed a little taken aback by her comment, but he most certainly was not going to give up the fight so easily. “And obviously, all one hundred and fifty-two centimetres and forty-five kilos of you, in that little dress and heels, helped Kenley tremendously against the greatsword.”

I winced. That was hitting below the belt, even for Sherlock. He must have been feeling rather desperate. But Emma didn’t even flinch.

“It was a  claymore, and my seeing the murder found the murderers more quickly than the acclaimed consulting detective had been able to.”

This was getting dirty, but Sherlock wasn’t about to give up yet. “You mean Stewart Burwick?”

She didn’t even flinch. “Assisted by a young man named Stiles and led by Edina Mattix, yes! And I know more than that, but you are obviously far more interested in feeding your own ego than listening to me.”

He pulled back as though she had thrown a pail of ice water in his face. “She was there?”

She tried to cross her arms smugly, but caught her hand on her stitches, winced, and refolded her arms more carefully. “No, but I overheard Stewart speaking with her on the phone, so, she may as well have been. She’s convinced him that they are in a serious relationship and used that to coerce him into murdering MacIntosh and Kenley. He’s definitely not a career criminal.”

Sherlock paused, trying to regroup after Emma had trounced him. I was impressed. 

His next words were spoken at a much lower volume. “I assumed your timidity was all-encompassing.”

“I told you I was not afraid of physical pain, Mr Holmes. Just people.” I could actually see the last of the fire die in her and she sank painfully back into the chair and repeated very softly, “Just people.”


	15. Chapter 15 (Emma's POV)

After the row finally ended, I was ever so glad that Effie Duncanson had brewed another pot of tea. I had been weary before—this had been one of the longest and most trying days of my life—but after that little spat with Sherlock I was positively exhausted. My feet hurt, the stitches on my arms were already starting to catch on everything, and it was sometime after eleven. But a spot of tea and those lovely shortbread biscuits she made were just enough to keep me going. 

Sherlock had been quite worked up when he came in. I think if something had happened to me, he would have had quite a bit of trouble back at Scotland Yard. Not to mention that we had come close to catching Kenley’s killers only to lose them again. I did feel rather responsible for that, but there was nothing to be done about it now. At least I had been able to obtain more information than we had before. I wasn’t familiar with how these things generally went, but I hoped we could catch at least Edina Mattix and some of her compatriots in the next few hours.

Now, though, he was remarkably calm and focused. He even offered to pour my tea. Something about that nagged at me. He had calmed down way too quickly.

“How do you take it?”

“Cream, two sugars, please.” I was too tired to listen to my nagging doubts and resist his offer.

After preparing and handing me my tea, Sherlock poured himself a cup, settled into the couch, and asked the inevitable question. “What happened and how did you escape?”

I finished my second swallow of tea, letting the warmth settle into me before answering. “Well, I saw Edina Mattix talking to Gavin Kenley extensively, then she left out that door. Not such a huge sign, of course, but then I kept an eye on Mr Kenley, and after a few minutes he looked around suspiciously and exited the same door. Obviously to meet her.”

“Obviously.”

I nodded. “I didn’t see anything of Miss Mattix any time after that; my guess is she had merely circled around and entered the opposite side of the ballroom as soon as she saw that Kenley had left, to divert suspicion from herself. I didn’t have much time to think about it, though, because I reached the end of the building just in time to see Mr Burwick clip off Mr Kenley’s head with an old claymore.”

I took another sip of tea to put off the next part because I was loath to admit it. 

“I assume that’s when you screamed?” John prompted. 

I grimaced. “Yes. I was going to turn and run as soon as I did it, but I didn’t realise Stiles was there and I ran right into him. And obviously I wasn’t adept enough to escape.” I worked my mouth again uncomfortably and took another sip of tea.

“So, they brought you out here. Where exactly?”

“The old barn across that fallow field,” I said, gesturing in the general direction. “They had tied my hands and blindfolded me by then, so when they were getting me into the barn I fell a few times.” I couldn’t prevent a one-sided, self-deprecating smile as I showed my skinned elbows, but I did avoid putting my hand to my face. 

“Anyway, they put me back in the corner on a straw bale, then Stew—he’s American, by the way—went outside to call Edina. He had trouble getting a signal, so I don’t think he realised he was so close to the wall where I was when he was talking to her. She was going to come out here, but I’m sure Mr Burwick called to let her know after I had escaped and it had fallen apart, so I doubt she ever got very close.”

Sherlock nodded. “Did you find out anything else?”

This was the part I had waited for, and I found myself getting rather enthused, which was silly. It felt like I had found a particularly delicious sweet or juicy bit of gossip that I couldn’t wait to share. I leaned toward him and said, “Yes. When Stewart came back into the barn, they started talking about football.”

Sherlock’s face fell. He was obviously underwhelmed. “All plebeians talk about football.”

I gave a quick shake of my head. “No, you don’t understand. Stiles said it was so he could be ready. And it wasn’t our football. It was  American football.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t picture you as a sport enthusiast.”

“I’m not, but I was reading up on it before the ball, so I could speak with MacIntosh’s friends and not look like an idiot. It’s quite confusing, actually. There are so many types of football, and rugby, and what it is called depends on where you are, and the rules are similar but different, and the terms are—”

Sherlock shook his head. “Yes, yes. So it was American football. What—ohh!”

My grin widened. It was glorious, sharing the secret and watching him get it, too. John looked back and forth between us. “What is it? I don’t understand.”

“Aaron Dalton,” said Sherlock and I simultaneously. 

“Who?”

“The American from the impromptu gathering at MacIntosh’s flat,” said Sherlock. 

I was too excited to let him have all the fun giving it away. “He’s American, and rich, and was there even though Mrs MacIntosh didn’t know him.”

Sherlock wouldn’t let me finish either. “But Edina Mattix didn’t flirt with him—though she flirted with every other rich or powerful person in the room. So obviously they knew each other. I don’t see how I didn’t make the connection before.”

I nodded. “I didn’t realise it was odd that she hadn’t flirted with him until I was sitting here sifting through all the information. That’s when I made the connection myself.”

Sherlock gave me a smile that seemed extraordinarily pleased and almost proud. I don’t know why, but it made me feel a little light-headed. 

John was still looking back and forth between us, and he gave a little smile. I suppose he finally got it. “But I thought it was Edina Mattix that was behind it all. And why would anyone lop off two Scotsmen’s heads over American football?”

“I think Edina Mattix was probably behind the violence,” I answered, “She seems to have that level of coldness, manipulation, and deception in her. But Aaron Dalton is involved at some level, I’m sure of it. Probably financially, both as backer and executive of the financial part of the scheme. American football would make it his idea.”

Sherlock nodded. “Edina Mattix is already quite wealthy, so it is probably some venture that requires an extraordinary amount of capital.”

I was thrilled, but too weary to show it much. Still, I wanted to tease just a little. “Do you wish to know what else I found when I was researching football?”

John and Sherlock were both terribly accommodating of my childish melodrama, both watching me intently. It was John who finally asked, “What did you find?”

“The Edinburgh rugby union team—which was MacIntosh’s favourite—played at Murrayfield stadium. And the Scottish Rugby Union, upon whose board MacIntosh, and probably Kenley, worked, controls that stadium. And…”

Sherlock was becoming impatient. He gave me one of those pointed, ‘Hurry up and stop the games’ looks.

“There was an American football team that used to play there. The  Scottish Claymores.”

John’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my God.”

I sat back up quickly, which pulled at my stitches, but I clapped my hands excitedly anyway. “Isn’t it  delightful?”

John put his hand over his face almost as if experiencing something unpleasant, which made no sense because we had  figured it out , but Sherlock was giving me a huge grin. 

“Shall we go find Aaron Dalton then?”

It was understandable that Sherlock wanted to get going right away, but I was sure that might have been problematic with the two officers there still investigating my abduction. Even though they hadn’t seemed to pay attention to any of our conversation after the row. But as fate would have it, Sherlock and John had come with an officer themselves. Sherlock went to where she was standing by the door and spoke to her softly. 

“Officer Leaper, would you like to be involved with the arrest of members of a crime syndicate?”

She smiled. “Of course, sir. Do you think we’ll need backup?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I doubt the person we’re going to question and probably arrest will be armed. He should lead us to others that may be dangerous, and will need to be picked up as soon as possible, but we don’t need to be directly involved in that. Though I’m sure you will get the credit for taking care of the entire gang. Should be marvellous for your career.”

Her grin became even more enthusiastic. “What do you want me to do?”

He smiled a small, conspiratorial sort of smile. “Tell the officers over there that you need to take Miss Bedingfield back to Edinburgh with you for more questioning, then drive us back to Edinburgh to confront Mr Dalton. Simple.”

She nodded, and proceeded to do exactly as he asked. Getting me to the car was a little problematic, however. My feet were not only painful, but the bandaging made them awkward to walk on.

As John gingerly took my left arm and Sherlock took the right, John felt compelled to ask, “What happened to your feet, Emma? Did Stewart Burwick and Stiles take your shoes?”

I tried not to wince as we walked. “No, I flung them across the field.”

He looked at me with astonishment. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“Have you ever tried running across a fallow field, full of rocks, in the dark, in heels?”

His astonishment became a reluctantly amused grin. “I can’t say that I have, no.”

“It’s marginally worse than running across the same field in bare feet.” I returned his smile, though I knew my pain was showing. I seemed to notice, however, that the painkillers the paramedics had given me were starting to take effect. They were making me a little groggy.

Officer Leaper turned to me. “Would you prefer the back or the front?”

“Back, please. I think I would find the front seat distracting.” She nodded, then opened the back door for me and John and Sherlock handed me in. Then Sherlock said something odd.

“John, you sit up front. I have some questions for Emma, so I’m sitting in the back.”

John cocked his head slightly, showing that he hadn’t expected that either, but he accepted the offer, and soon we were all in the car, harnessed in, and Leaper began the drive back to Edinburgh.

Sherlock immediately began asking more questions. “So, how  did  you escape?”

I blinked slowly. The painkillers were hitting me harder than I had expected. “It was dark in the barn and Stewart and Stiles didn’t have any sort of torch or lantern, so a few minutes after they sat me on that straw bale back in the corner, I tried to scoot back to the wall to work off my blindfold. As my feet weren’t bound, I was hoping to be able to somehow distract them and run. But I hit something and the straw bale collapsed, throwing me against the wall and knocking over a lot of tools. I was able to cut my bindings on one of the tools, but the most helpful thing was that hitting the wall disrupted Mr Duncanson’s overfull hayloft that was supported by a lot of rotting wood. The hay shifted, the wood supports broke, and my captors were buried under nearly a ton of hay and broken boards.”

He gave me a half-grin. “That was fortuitous.”

I nodded, but I was starting to lose motor control and my thoughts were becoming fuzzy. This couldn’t be from just painkillers. “Marcus…that’s Mr Duncanson…said he’s needed to repair that hayloft for years, and since Maggie died…that’s his cow…he’s had too much hay up there.” I could hear the slur in my words, but when I looked at Sherlock to see if he noticed, he was just smiling at me.

The tea.

He bloody drugged my tea. 

I wanted to call him something my mother would not have approved of, but I lost consciousness before I could say anything. 


	16. Chapter 16 (John's POV)

“Oh, look, she’s fallen asleep.”

Sherlock’s voice sounded far too innocent. I had noticed Emma’s words starting to slur as she finished the story of her escape, and as she had been so excited back at the farmhouse, I found it unlikely that she would have fallen asleep so quickly on her own. I looked back and, sure enough, she was out cold, her red curls splayed against the window and her features limp, pressed up against the glass. Far too limp for having just barely dozed off. I glared suspiciously at Sherlock, who was giving me the creepy grin that immediately brought the panicked  what have you done now thought into the forefront of my mind. But as we were in a police car, with a police officer, I said nothing. 

“She must have been exhausted,” said Anne cheerfully. “The painkillers probably finished the job.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock in his conveniently compliant voice. “That must be it. We obviously can’t take her to Dalton’s. Could we stop at our hotel and drop her off?”

“Yes, of course.”

I tried to verify, in as subtle a way as possible, if Sherlock had drugged her. “Won’t she wake up when we try to get her to her room?”

“No,” he replied with utmost confidence, “I think she’ll be out for a while now.”

I had to rub my temple to contain my anger, but I rubbed the one not facing Leaper. Whether or not I approved of his actions, I didn’t think his getting arrested for drugging our colleague would aid in the larger investigation. 

The thirty minute drive back to the hotel was uneventful, though Leaper was being rather loquacious, quite different than our drive down. She asked basic questions regarding our cases and our work, nothing unusual there. Sherlock’s monosyllabic responses told me he was probably on his phone; most likely calculating the best approach and location to confront Dalton. I gave most of the responses Leaper sought, though without paying much attention, because inside I was stewing over why Sherlock had felt compelled to drug Emma. 

When we reached the hotel, Leaper said she would wait for us while we took Emma up to her room. When I exited the car, I was shocked to see that Sherlock had actually run around to Emma’s side of the car and was lifting her from the back seat himself. If there’s ever heavy lifting involved—and by ‘heavy’ I mean ‘any’—he has me do it. Always. But all he asked me to do was adjust her head so that it was against his shoulder instead of flopping back in an obviously-comatose manner.

I held my silence, opening doors, walking through the foyer, and pushing buttons for the lift. But once we had reached our floor and I saw that no one was about, I ripped into him.

“That was not okay, Sherlock! What in the world possessed you to drug her? And with three police officers  right there! I’m shocked that Anne didn’t figure it out and just drive us straight to the police station to arrest you!”

Sherlock’s face hardened like iron. He was very sure that what he had done was needed. “She was too involved, John. Too deep.”

“You  wanted her involved, remember? You were the one who practically begged her to join in on this investigation!”

He stooped just slightly. “Could you get her clutch from my inner coat pocket? Her room key is in it.”

I paused my rampage just long enough to fetch her key and open the door, then lit into him again as I followed him into the room. “You have been grooming her this entire time as an investigator, and when she turns out to be rather brilliant at it, you knock her out because she’s  too involved? You make no bloody sense sometimes. And to think she actually called you ‘amiable.’”

He laid her carefully on the bed, then did something that didn’t match his modus operandi—he brushed a loose curl of her hair from her face. Since she was unconscious, he couldn’t have been doing it to fool her of anything. And he certainly wasn’t doing it for me. Too many suspicious actions from him tonight. 

He then attempted to shore up his reasoning. “She was too invested. More than I anticipated. She is not a professional. Did you even hear how she escaped? All blunders and luck. She’s not ready for real case work.”

“No, she was bloody good and you know it. You don’t think she’s not ready. You’re just protecting her—odd enough for you to try anyway—but the most you’ll accomplish is pissing her off.”

He sneered dismissively. “In case you don’t remember, we are responsible for her in this investigation, and this last part is where it usually becomes dangerous. So protecting her is, of course, a major consideration. Lestrade would kill me if anything happened to her.”

“Since when has Lestrade’s anger ever mattered one whit to you? You started poking around because you thought she was interesting. You started being nice to her because that was the best way to get her to do what you wanted. But now you’re in over your head.”

“Really? Back to this again?! How many times do I have to tell you, I am married to my work. Sentiment is the grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment.”

But he couldn’t look at me when he said it. And I remembered how clueless he was with people, though it could be easy to forget with all the rest of his brilliance. So I actually felt bad about what I needed to say next, and my volume decreased significantly because of that. 

“Well, you won’t have to worry about her being a liability and a distraction much longer. She’s a nice girl, Sherlock. Not the kind of person who would take kindly to being knocked out, whether it was for her protection or not. Because nice, normal people don’t do that to each other. This investigation will probably be her last.” 

He still wouldn’t look at me, but his face showed all I needed to know with the complete loss of all the hard, intense lines and taut muscles that usually accompanied an investigation. I have only seen that look on his face a couple of times before. The subtle, ‘I’m sorry. I hurt someone I didn’t mean to’ look. 

It saddened me to see him this way, but there was nothing to be done for it now, and I knew we had to move forward. “She’ll be safe here. Anne is waiting downstairs. We need to go.”

The firm, focused look returned and he led the way out the door.

It only took minutes to return to Anne waiting for us in the police car. She already had Dalton’s address pulled up on her dashboard computer, and after Sherlock took his normal front seat position and I the back, we were off before we even had our safety belts buckled. As she drove, she asked questions about the case. 

“So, you think that this Aaron Dalton was behind a scheme to start an American football club up in Edinburgh?”

Sherlock was skimming through a lot of information on his phone, and took a few moments to put down his phone and answer. “Yes. Apparently the Edinburgh Wolves weren’t good enough for him.”

“The who?”

“Precisely.”

I was confused. “Are you saying there is already an American football club in Edinburgh?”

“Yes, are you not keeping up? The Edinburgh Wolves are part of the British American Football Association, which in turn is part of the International Federation of American Football.”

“You just looked that up.”

“I did, and it is so boring, I believe it is making my eye twitch. The only thing I find more tedious than organised sports are the troglodytes that play them.”

Anne snorted, then composed herself. “Why would he go to so much trouble to create a new American football club if they already have a team and a whole British Association for it here?”

Sherlock cocked his eyebrow in the expression of one who has had to deal far too long with the likes of idiots like Dalton. “Why does anyone do anything? He is a pompous ass who felt it was being done wrong and he could undoubtedly do it better.”

I immediately had to suppress a laugh. 

“And this Emma Bedingfield you’ve been working with figured all that out while she was tied up in a barn?”

Sherlock brought his phone back out and began rifling through it again. “Yes, apparently.”

“Huh,” Anne noted with an air of admiration, “That’s not bad, keeping up with Sherlock Holmes. From a barn. Wouldn’t mind having her on my team.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow cocked as he looked at Anne, but this time as a query rather than his normal long-suffering annoyance. 

“You fancy she would make a good police officer?”

The blond officer shrugged. “She’s a little small; she’d need some beefing up. But she has spirit and she’s clever, and that’s good enough for me.”

Sherlock watched her for just a moment more before turning back to his phone and swiping something off the screen. He put the phone back in his pocket just as we drove up to a row of posh houses. Anne parked in front of number forty-four and shut off the car. There wasn’t even one second before Sherlock started giving instructions. 

“He’s home and asleep, so, John, if you—”

Anne cleared her throat. “We’re doing this according to the law, Mr Holmes. I will knock on the door and if he answers, we can ask him some questions.”

Sherlock groaned and got out of the car. He absolutely despised following rules, or not being in charge, but I suppose even he could see the potential problems of breaking into a person’s house when you were with a police officer. He waited for her to come around and lead the way.

As we came up to the door, motion sensing lights came on, giving the illusion that someone was aware of us. But Anne had to knock or ring the bell three times before a bleary eyed balding man in a hastily-donned silk bathrobe came to the door. 

“Is there a problem, officer?”

“Is Aaron Dalton in?”

“Yes, but he’s sleeping. May I ask what this is regarding?”

“Two murders, for a start.”

The man, obviously a servant, went from groggy to wide-eyed awake in an instant. Standing back and holding the door open, he gestured for us to come in and have a seat.

“I will tell him you are here,” he said, then quickly walked out of the room.

“Wait for it,” said Sherlock, holding up a finger.

Suddenly, there was a loud thunk and a lot of yelling from somewhere upstairs. Sherlock smiled with satisfaction and put his finger back down. “Dalton values himself far too highly to take kindly to being awakened at this hour by  anyone.”

There was some more rummaging around, then the distinctive sounds of someone stomping down a hall and within a few more moments we saw a tall, thin man in a billowing bathrobe and bare feet coming down the stairs towards us. I didn’t need to look at his face to know he was not happy.

“What is this all about? And why couldn’t it wait until the morning?!”

Sherlock didn’t give Anne a chance to respond before he said with a smile, “There’s been another murder, Mr Dalton.”

Dalton’s pinched and angry face widened to a look of shock. “What? Who’s been killed?”

“Gavin Kenley.”

He blinked. “I hardly know the man. Why would you wake me in the middle of the night to tell me a man I hardly know has been killed?”

Sherlock’s smile didn’t fade. “Because we know you’re involved with the people behind the murder and know why they did it.”

Now Dalton laughed a short, angry laugh. “Are you seriously coming to tell me I am involved in a murder of someone I hardly know? Get out of my house!”

The authority that came with Anne’s badge stepped in. “I’m afraid we need you to answer some questions first, Mr Dalton.”

His jaw tensed, but he complied. “Fine. Just a few questions. But one step out of bounds and I’m calling my lawyer. Or solicitor. Or barrister. Or whatever the hell you people call them here.”

Sherlock took over again. “How did you know Gavin Kenley?”

Dalton shrugged as he sat in a high-backed armchair. “He was part of the SRU committee in charge of Murrayfield Stadium. We were in negotiations with them to acquire rights to use the stadium as a home for a new football team. Have been working on that for about the last six months.”

“American football?” asked Leaper.

“Of course ‘American football,’” he sneered. “Not that feeble excuse for a sport you Brits call ‘football.’”

“Were you aware that Edinburgh already has an American football team?”

Dalton’s laugh was haughty in the extreme. “Have you even  seen  their stadium? I’ve seen high school fields bigger than that! It’s a mockery of gridiron football!”

“Didn’t they have a larger American football team in Murrayfield before? It failed, didn’t it?”

Dalton leaned forward and answered through clenched teeth. “Those idiots were running it like minor leagues, sending all their third stringers and washouts here and expecting the league to do well. Of course they lost money, and of course it failed. I know business better than any of them, and football better than half their coaches. You can’t do something half-assed and expect it to do well. Especially when you’re first trying to break into a market. Go big or go home.”

Sherlock had the snide half-smile he saved for people he particularly despised. “You were going to do it right, then. Make it ‘big.’”

“Damn straight! But those idiots at the SRU wouldn’t give us the time of day! There’s not another stadium in Edinburgh big enough for proper games, and they know it. Said  if we could get the attendance we could hire the stadium for the occasional game, but they didn’t feel that an American football team having rights to Murrayfield as a home base would be profitable. Morons! Have they even  heard of Superbowl Sunday?” Then his posture suddenly shrank and his eyes darted about. Not wise, speaking ill of the dead. Particularly the murdered dead. “I mean, it’s a shame about Kenley and all. But I hardly knew him. And I’ve been here all night anyway. You can ask my servants.”

Sherlock’s face was impassive, with only a hint of a smile, as he said quietly, “You don’t have a wife to vouch for you? Shame. I wonder why no woman has snatched you up yet.”

Dalton glared at him. “I am dedicated to my work and my few other passions, in which there is no one my equal. I don’t need a woman in my life.”

My friend’s smug smile faded away. “How do you know Edina Mattix?”

Dalton blinked, his own anger replaced with disquietude. “Edina Mattix? She’s one of our investors. For the team. Shrewd businesswoman, from what I’ve heard. I don’t really know her personally.”

“And Stewart Burwick?”

Dalton’s expression was blank. “Never heard of him.”

“How did you know Charles MacIntosh?”

The nervous look returned. “That murdered Member of Parliament? Not really at all.”

“He actually worked with the SRU as well. On the committee with Gavin Kenley, in fact.”

Dalton swallowed hard. “Did he? What a strange coincidence.”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock darkly. “Almost as big of a coincidence as you showing up to an impromptu memorial for someone you happened to know ‘not really at all,’ who also worked on a committee that had been blocking a major business venture of yours.”

While his body stayed stock still, Aaron Dalton’s eyes emptied and his facial features went slack. I did rather like it when Sherlock put the situation so succinctly in front of a criminal like that. Sherlock, Anne, and I just stared at Dalton. The tension in the room increased exponentially until Dalton, as expected, snapped.

“I didn’t have anything to do with any of that. If those murders had anything to do with our venture—and I’m not saying they did—then it was done without my approval.”

“Of course. Because I can’t imagine you would be involved with something that, while on the surface, seemed to open a path for your venture but really would taint the entire association with scandal so completely that it would materially damage prospects of investors, sponsors, and fans.”

Dalton swallowed hard again. “I just asked her to get it worked out. That’s all. She’s one of you—a Brit, I mean—so I figured she would know the social conventions and have better connections than I did. I never expected or wanted any murders. She seemed like a shrewd businesswoman. How could I have known she would stoop to this sort of thuggery?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “The fact that you showed up at the memorial says that you guessed that she had done it. But I don’t think you could have predicted it. Because it was never about the football team to her at all.”

Aaron Dalton’s face reflected the confusion I now felt, and I turned quickly to my friend. “What do you mean, ‘never about the football team?’ If it wasn’t about the football team, what was it about?”

“It was about Emma being right.”

“What?”

Sherlock ignored my confusion and turned to Anne. “Officer Leaper, I believe Mr Dalton should be taken to the local police station immediately. He is an important witness to the opportunity and possible motivations of Edina Mattix in two murders, which could also put him in danger.”

“Okaaayyy…so we’re all going to head back to the station?”

“No, John and I will get a cab. We have something else we need to take care of.”

  


Once Aaron Dalton realised he was being taken in more for his protection than as a suspect, he was far more compliant. Sherlock phoned for a cab while he dressed, and we all walked out together.

After Dalton was settled in Anne’s car, she turned to us. 

“You’re not thinking about going after Mattix on your own, are you?”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

She smiled. “They really let you get away with a lot down there in London, don’t they? But from what I’ve heard, she sounds dangerous, and you know what they say about cornered wolves.”

Sherlock returned a small, pacifying smile. “We’ll keep that in mind, officer.”

She nodded, climbed into her car, and drove off. I turned to Sherlock. “Are we going after Miss Mattix now, then?”

“Not yet. While there is a slim chance she doesn’t know we are on to her yet, I’m sure Burwick has already told her about Emma and her escape, and it won’t take much time for Miss Mattix to piece together that it was her going out five minutes before Kenley that set off Emma’s suspicions. But with Burwick now definitively identified as the murderer, he and Stiles have become a liability to her. She can’t let them live, which gives us an advantage if we can get to them first.”

“Have I ever told you that your penchant for using living people as bait isn’t very nice?”

“Three or four times, yes.”

The cab showed up then, and after we were inside and Sherlock had given the cabbie an address in Kirkliston, he continued. 

“Mattix will be working on leaving the country, probably to one of the thirty three countries with which Britain has no extradition treaty. But to leave behind no loose ends, she must make sure that Burwick and Stiles are dead before she leaves. She will probably lure them to a port under the pretence that they will leave with her, but since they don’t seem the least bit prepared for any contingencies like this, Burwick and Stiles probably have to take the time to go home and grab things like passports first.” 

He looked at his watch. “It’s been a little over an hour and a half since Emma’s escape, which unfortunately gives them a huge advantage. But if we are lucky, we might still catch them packing.”

“Why a port? And why not kill them immediately?”

“Airports have far too much security, and trains would have to pass through far too many countries with which Britain  does have extradition treaties to be safe. As to the delay in killing them, it’s because Emma was right.”

“You said that before. What do you mean by that?”

“I had assumed that the motivations behind this crime were fuelled by the usual: greed, anger, revenge. That sort of thing. But Emma saw a deeper motivation in Edina Mattix . She loves to manipulate, control, and disrupt. Nothing new there, but I was incorrect in assuming that those things were a means to an end, rather than the goal themselves.”

“Are you saying that she was doing all this for the love of chaos and manipulation?” 

“Yes. When we were talking with Aaron Dalton, it became obvious that beheading members of a committee that had blocked your business venture was not only an extreme reaction, but would be most likely ineffective. Yet Edina, by all accounts a shrewd businesswoman, had still gone to great lengths to do it. I also realised that a woman such as herself, who had made her fortune through aristocratic lineage and real estate, was making an odd decision by backing a sport club venture—especially because, according to my research, she had shown no previous interest in sport whatsoever, let alone American sports. Why would an aristocrat go so far out of her way to back something unlikely to be profitable and specifically designed to disrupt the status quo? Because the disruption was the goal. If her extreme method to get the venture started actually worked, it would cause a lovely amount of chaos. But even if it didn’t, her methods would have caused enough chaos that it would satisfy her anyway. She couldn’t lose.”

“And you’re saying Emma saw this? I don’t remember her saying anything like that.”

“Don’t you? She continually tried to refocus the investigation on Edina Mattix, because she not only saw what Mattix was doing, she could also see that Mattix got an unusual amount of pleasure from it. Mattix had flirted with  every rich and powerful person at that memorial except Dalton. She didn’t do it because she needed them. She didn’t do it because she was attracted to their money or power. She did it because she liked being able to manipulate and control, and the bigger the target, the more satisfying the manipulation.”

He grew quiet, and the focus of his eyes drifted inward. Half his mouth turned up in a wistful smile, but his eyebrows tilted sadly. “I had thought she was getting distracted from the important parts of the case because she was new to investigating. But she was right all along.”


	17. Chapter 17 (Emma's POV)

On movies and television, when you see people come to after being unconscious, it is usually a slow, groggy awakening. In my life experience, I have consistently seen the same thing. But I don’t wake up like that. Just like when I awaken in the water after a death, I shoot up, gasping for breath. I imagine they are related somehow. 

When I shot straight up in my hotel bed, it was completely dark and I was quite befuddled. I winced at the pain throughout my entire body, particularly my arm where the stitches had caught the bedclothes. It took a few moments to get my bearings and remember where I was and why I hurt. Then I groaned and lay back down on the bed. 

More memories started to become clear. Sherlock had drugged my tea. This, of course, made me feel hurt and even betrayed. But as he was not there for me to confront, I was left to ponder the reasons why myself. 

I had no doubt that he had done it to protect me in some way. His reaction to my state when he arrived at the farmhouse made it clear that he had not been prepared for the possibility of seeing me so injured, though I’m sure it looked worse than it was. He had to feel responsible, especially because he had been the one to ask me to come and then convince Lestrade to allow me along. But that didn’t excuse this sort of thing. He hadn’t even tried asking me to stay behind. Not that I would have agreed, of course. Which he would have known, and his desire for efficiency would have wanted a more sure intervention. 

I had learnt in our brief time together that while he was brilliant at deducing many, many things about people and situations, his understanding of what actions were appropriate with other people was deficient, and his ability to either sympathise or empathise were nearly nonexistent. I could sometimes tell that he cared about certain people, such as John, and he appreciated various things of beauty, such as music or something very well done, but he did not understand how others felt, and didn’t care about their feelings anyway. So I knew he didn’t fully realise the implications of what he did, and I couldn’t be terribly angry for long. 

But I  was hurt. Interacting with him had started to feel…I don’t know…comfortable. Pleasant. Not just interesting, but it made me feel intelligent and maybe even a little important. Maybe I had fooled myself into thinking I was an exception to his rule of not really getting on with anyone; seeing everyone as objects that needed to be molded or manipulated to suit his purposes. But drugging me seemed to put me in that category with everyone else. Which filled me with far more sadness than it should have.

Now I was tired and sore and most of me just wanted to pull the covers over myself and sleep, then go home in the morning. But the thought made me mad at myself.  Emma Elisabeth Audrea Bedingfield. You did not get into this for emotional reasons and silly emotional reasons are not going to stop you, either. You got into this to prove to Colin that you were strong enough for him to move on with his life, and if you quit now you will be proving the opposite. Get. Up.

So I sat up, though I can’t say I didn’t groan when I did it. I turned on the bedside lamp, stood up, and put one of my bags onto the bed. I pulled out a tightly rolled sweatshirt, jeans, socks, and a pair of old trainers that I hardly ever wore. I carefully removed my battered dress and held it for a long moment over the rubbish bin. So many memories. Then I let it go, watching the silk flow into the bin with finality. Then I turned back to my new clothes and slowly dressed, wincing the entire time. I had no one to appear brave for.

While I dressed, I planned my next actions. The bedside clock read 1:04, so it had been nearly two hours since we had left the farmhouse. Which meant Aaron Dalton was undoubtedly now in hand. That left Stiles, Stewart, and Edina. As I had already met Stewart and Stiles, and failed in rather spectacular style, I decided to focus my efforts on Edina. The men had strength, in which case they were far superior to me. But Edina was clever. She didn’t do the heavy lifting herself, so I might have a chance of dealing with her. I hoped. Besides, out of all of them, I believed she was the most dangerous. 

After I finished tying my shoes, I happened to see myself in the mirror across the room as I stood up and had to stop for a moment. I hadn’t seen myself since before the ball, so I didn’t realise how extensive the damage looked. Scrapes and bruises galore, and heavens, my  hair. I spent a couple of futile moments trying to finger-comb it into some semblance of order, then dropped my arms and found myself smiling. Despite the pain and the frustration and the horrible events of the evening, I actually felt a little giddy seeing myself like that. Because I had looked exactly the same for over a hundred years, untouched and unaltered. Now…now I looked like someone who actually  lived.

Then I sat at the desk and turned my laptop back on. Stewart had to have warned Edina of my escape and the risk of her exposure. The fact that I was sure Edina had recognised Sherlock at the ball made the situation even more urgent—if she knew him, she knew of his reputation. If she knew of his reputation, she knew she didn’t have much time. 

A ship was the only viable option, I was sure. I quickly looked up the countries with whom we didn’t have extradition treaties, and compared that with all the ships leaving from Edinburgh in the next few hours. There was a ship leaving from the Port of Leith to Nanjing, China at 4:00 a.m. It was for shipping goods, but from what I had heard, such ships often would take a traveller or two, and I was sure that if they were given enough money there would be no record of the travellers on the manifest. So I would go to the port and see what I could find. 

I pulled on my jacket, wincing as it tugged the sweatshirt sleeve over my stitches. Then I put my room key in my pocket, along with a handkerchief and as many various pound notes as I could comfortably fit, and left the room. 

I had to take a deep breath as I stood outside my room. It was 1:30 a.m., but I was actually feeling a little more awake than I had at the farmhouse, doubtless due to the involuntary nap. But my new determination was already waning as my old insecurities and fears began to creep back in. 

When you are in the adrenaline rush of the moment, you have other things taking precedence, pushing the old fears away. But right now, everything I was planning to do was my choice. Mine. I could go back into that room and climb into bed and no one would fault me. Few would even realise I hadn’t just slept the rest of the night away without having made any choice at all. I actually rocked back and forth for a moment, from the back foot as though to turn around, to the front as if to step forward. 

Why was I doing this, anyway? I mean, I had first become involved involuntarily, as a witness to a crime. But even then, I could have walked back into the restaurant when I noticed something seemed off. I had gone forward because, despite all my fears, reticence, and decades of habits, one thing trumped them all. I couldn’t stand idly by and watch someone get hurt if I thought I could do anything about it.

So far, my interference hadn’t helped anyone. But Edina Mattix enjoyed this far too much. Having been behind the killing of two people already, being exposed for what she is would only free her from the difficulties and conventions of operating unnoticed in polite society. This, in turn, could set her on a spree that could do horrific damage to a lot of people. So if I could help to stop her, I would not only be proving to Colin that I could be independent, but I would be doing a lot of good. 

I firmed my shoulders and stepped forward toward the lift. I had a unique ability that no one else had—I couldn’t stay dead. This could give me an incredible advantage in deadly situations. And I had wasted and avoided this ability for far too long. It was shameful. Even if it was just this once, I had to rectify that.

Once down in the foyer, I had to ask the desk clerk to call me a cab. He eyed me and my condition warily. “Are you in need of aid, miss? Has someone hurt you?”

I smiled at him, though it reopened the split in my lip. “No, I had a bit of a row with a dog. It’s been taken care of. Thank you for your concern.”

He smiled and nodded, though he still eyed me carefully as he called the cab. Once he confirmed that the cab would be there in five to ten minutes, I thanked him and went out the front door.

It was positively frigid outside, making my breath plume in front of my face. Ah, spring in Edinburgh! But it was a mite more comfortable than sitting in the lobby under the lights with people watching. There was only two people in there right now, and it was unlikely there would be more in the next five to ten minutes. But I had no facade right now; no role to play. Sitting and waiting under the lights with no one else to draw the attention of the clerks away from me would drive my anxiety too high. Out here it was cold, but it was also dark and solitary. 

I was regretting the fact that I had no wrist watch when the cab finally arrived. I quickly climbed in, huffing onto my hands to warm them the second after I shut the door.

“Port of Leith, please.”

“This time of night, miss?”

“Yes…I’m…meeting someone.”

He smiled at me, and I tried to return it, but I was a bit mortified that I had just given him the impression that I was meeting someone for illicit relations. I could only imagine how he thought my scrapes and bruises fit into that scenario. I sat back in the seat and did up the safety belt, trying my best to imagine this was a self-driving car. 

With only the engine and road noise to break the silence, I realised that it actually felt lonely in the back of that cab. I didn’t like strangers, true, but I hadn’t been out without Colin or someone else with me for a very long time. I would have even appreciated the company of John or Sherlock—but that reminded me of why I had been at the hotel, and my demotion to an object, which once again filled me with melancholy.

It was probably close to fifteen minutes later when the cab stopped at the port. I looked out the window at the docks. The cabbie was naturally dropping me off near Ocean Terminal, where the public were still regularly allowed and they could access things like cruise ships. I needed to get to a certain shipping berth, but I didn’t want the cabbie to know that, so I had to settle for this drop-off point and the long, convoluted walk it would require. 

“This is where you wanted, right miss?”

I shook my head. “Oh, yes, it is.” I pulled out a twenty pound note and handed it to him. “Thank you.”

He took the note and smiled, which I returned. I exited the cab and tried to look nonchalant as he drove out of sight.

It seemed even colder here, what with the increased damp from the sea. I folded my arms in close, tucked my hands up under my armpits, and started walking. I didn’t have a torch, so I felt as bumbling as Stewart and Stiles, but there was nothing to be done about that now. I hoped I would be able to see enough from the little light available from buildings and lampposts. But I knew if Edina was on one of the ships, she would see me first, and that could be bad. Ah, well. I’d adjust my plans as necessary. What was the worst she could do? Kill me?

Once the cab had passed out of earshot, the rhythmic knocking of small waves and the floating vessels they pushed against the docks were all I could hear. The smell was incredibly strong. There was, of course, the undercurrent of brine, fish, and a bit of rotting sea waste that always came with the shore. That part reminded me of my father taking me and mother to Brighton when I was about twelve. I had never seen the sea before, and I was enraptured with it. The memory was so full of sunshine and happiness that, despite the seriousness of the current situation, I smiled. 

But the other smells reminded me why I was there. Petrol, human waste, rusting iron, and other things that we never saw or smelt at the seaside when I was a child. I focused on those smells, the nastiness of them. I was there to cleanse that from my memories of Brighton. I walked until I found the dock I needed, lined on the left with ships so large that they just seemed like immeasurable eaters of light and sound, looming over the quay. I took another deep breath and started walking, about twenty feet from the edge. 

Some docks are long, central piers, with ships on each side. I was glad this was not one of those, as even the idea of such had me reciting ‘yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death.’ These shipping berths were all along the left side, with buildings of varying size and purpose to my right. Walking down the dock put me out in the open. Not desirable—but more desirable than trying to navigate too close to the water, where I could easily tumble off the edge. The areas frequented by pedestrians had rails and ropes along the edge to prevent falls, but where the ships all took on mostly cargo, there were fewer such precautions.

I don’t know how long I had been searching—tensely and slowly moving through a dangerous and unfamiliar place made even a few minutes seem interminable—when the whispered hiss of “Miss Bedingfield?” scared me so badly that I stumbled over my own feet and took a good five seconds of recovery to stop myself from falling. 

During that time, a somewhat familiar figure came out from the shadows: a blond young lady, her hair bound back against the nape of her neck. But she wasn’t in a police uniform now; she was wearing jeans, what looked like a t-shirt, and a long wool coat. She holstered her revolver and turned on a torch to light her way towards me. 

I couldn’t hide my surprise when I recognised her. “Officer Leaper?”

Her smile was still tinged with shock. “Call me Anne, please! I thought you were going to be out the rest of the night! What are you doing out here?”

“I thought Edina Mattix would be trying to leave the country by ship. Are Sherlock and John here as well?”

She shook her head. “They were going after Burwick and Stiles while I took Dalton in. Mr Holmes called later to tell me Burwick had revealed he was supposed to meet Mattix here, and asked me to come see if I could find anything before he arrived.”

“Oh,” I responded, half relieved, half disappointed. But I  was exceptionally chuffed that she had light with her. And a gun. “Shall I join you, then? I forgot my torch.”

She paused, then nodded. “I suppose four eyes are better than two.”

We began walking, her slightly to the front with her torch and firearm. We hadn’t been walking for long before she started up a quiet conversation.

“I never realised there was a third person in the great detective team. All the news articles only mention Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. Did you just join them recently?”

I didn’t much care for small talk under the best of circumstances, but making idle conversation with a near stranger while seeking a killer was even worse. Regardless of my own comfort, it seemed ill-advised. But I hoped if I just gave short answers, the exchange would quickly die. 

“I was just asked to assist with this one investigation.”

“What sort of investigating do you usually do?”

“I don’t.”

“This is your first time?”

This was becoming tedious. “Yes.”

“Wow. I mean, when I heard what you figured out from Burwick and Stiles, I thought you were good. But you’ve never even done this before? That is absolutely incredible.”

Effusive praise always made me rather uncomfortable, but I smiled politely and thanked her. There were a few more moments of silence, which gave me hope that we could now focus on searching and not being seen. 

Alas, it was not to be. 

“Did you know this port has the largest water-front development in Europe?”

Really? She was throwing away our precious silence for chit chat about real estate? But I could not be impolite. “I had heard something about that, yes.”

“There’s government buildings, tourist locations, residential, everything.”

This time I only nodded, because I really was trying to seek out any clues to Edina Mattix’s whereabouts and I was having trouble seeing anything in the dark. Anne still had her torch on, but she was swinging it about too quickly, almost as if she weren’t trying to search at all.

I stopped dead. 

Real estate.

Anne turned around and shone the torch right in my face before I had time to hide my disquiet at my realisation. With the light in my eyes, I could no longer see her face, but I could hear the smile in her voice.

“What gave me away?”

I actually relaxed. I knew I could never have fought my way out physically anyway, and now I no longer needed to worry about an unexpected shot from the dark. 

“The triggers were the chatter and how you swung your torch around, like you weren’t really looking. But what connected you to Miss Mattix was the subject of real estate. A police officer wouldn’t usually express so much interest in real estate development in the middle of a manhunt. But the lover and partner in crime of a real estate magnate would.”

“So you figured that out as well?”

“Just now, yes. You were far too glad to see me for someone who hardly knew me. I may be inept, but I recognise attraction when I see it, so I thought you might be lesbian. And I remembered how I had never seen Edina Mattix show any kind of physical attraction for any of the men she flirted with. Put that all together with the real estate, and the fact that you are here in street clothes rather than the uniform I saw you in last, and it wasn’t a huge leap. I take it you sullied your uniform killing Dalton?”

She laughed.  Laughed.  “Yeah, he was a bit of a liability there at the end. Hadn’t fully expected the football scheme to work out, but hadn’t really expected the whole thing to fall apart like it has, either.”

“Terribly sorry about that.”

“Awfully sporting of you to admit your part in the falling apart. You don’t seem the least bit troubled. I would love to introduce you to Edina.”

I still couldn’t see her, but I could tell by the movement of the torchlight that she was coming closer. I was still squinting, but I smiled as sincerely as my terrified heart could manage. “That would be splendid, yes, thank you.”

  


Anne actually took my hand—in a friendly, rather than controlling fashion, which was actually even more unnerving—and led me down the pier where the ship I had predicted Edina would want was docked.

Hiding myself away for most of the last hundred years did not prepare me for this sort of situation. On a typical day, the heaviest distress I had to deal with was running out of eggs or having a protagonist in a novel in a particularly perilous situation. I needed to figure out a way to deal with Edina and Anne without getting anyone else into danger, or dying in front of them. But to do that, I had to first find some way to stop the building panic. 

I needed to build a persona. A wall. I had never had to do so under this extreme of circumstances, but surely the simple walls I had always used would adapt to this. I took a deep breath. Emma Minett had been gregarious and charming. But I needed someone different now. Someone charming, but adept at deception, subterfuge, and danger. I finally latched onto a favourite literary character from Baroness D’Orczy. I would be Emma Blakeney. 

My body began to relax as soon as I decided and I started applying the traits I had read about. With that growing calm, my mind once again grew capable of assessing the situation and examining my various courses of action. 

By the time we reached the far end of a long warehouse, I had four possible scenarios and plans in mind. It was somewhat tricky applying the tactics of a fictional hero of the French Revolution to the current situation. But it felt good going in with at least some plans. 

Edina Mattix was standing at the corner of the warehouse, looking out over the east side of the pier where lights from the residential developments across the bay rippled in the dark water. 

“Edina!” called Anne cheerily while releasing my hand, “Look who I found!”

Edina turned around and smiled at Anne. There was a lamppost nearby, so I could clearly see her features. She no longer wore the gaudy eye makeup she had worn at the memorials, but actually was quite becoming in simple mascara and lip gloss. She was wearing a long, pale grey coat that looked to be made of canvas, over a simple turtleneck jumper and sharply creased trousers. 

“I suppose it was meant to be, Anne. Though I must admit, I thought her a bit prettier before she was so battered.” Then she turned to me, and I was a bit surprised at the apparent sincerity of her smile. “Anne told me you were unusually clever, determined, and pretty. I thought you had to be, since you were working with Sherlock Holmes, but it’s nice to have that confirmed. We’ve taken quite a fancy to you.”

I returned my most charming smile. “It’s always nice to be appreciated.”

“What prompted you to join Mr Holmes in this investigation?”

I shrugged. “I wasn’t given much choice in the matter.”

She folded her arms. “Really? How so?”

“I and my manservant were witnesses to MacIntosh’s murder. Couldn’t identify anyone, but I was able to deduce some information from the crime scene. That put me in the path of Mr Holmes, and apparently he doesn’t see ‘clever’ very often. He insisted I join in the investigation. Even pulled strings at Scotland Yard to get it done.” 

Her smile tightened, her eyes narrowing. “So this isn’t your normal ‘cup of tea?’”

I shook my head. “Oh, heavens, no. I generally have…other hobbies. Apparently you do as well.”

“Of course. Real estate is decidedly boring when it comes down to it. Besides, financial gain is only a pleasant side effect of my true passions.”

“And those are?”

She leaned casually against the building and crossed her ankles. “Oh no, we’re really here to find out about you. After Anne phoned me with your real name—I knew it couldn’t be Emma Minett, since the man you were with was definitely not named Beck Minett—I did some checking on you. Not much information on you out there.”

“I find I prefer to remain ‘off grid.’ I’m sure you understand.”

She shrugged. “I find it more effective to have two personas—the Public and the True. Nature abhors a vacuum, as does public perception. If you give them something to see, they will generally accept it, no matter how false.”

I smiled tightly. “Wise advice. I’ll have to remember that.”

Edina walked up to me, gently taking my chin in her left hand and examining my face in the lamplight. “You are more young than I realised. That gives you even more potential.”

She turned her attention to my hands. “I heard your performance at the ball. Very impressive. But I doubt that is your true ambition. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have asked you to join in an investigation unless he thought you were truly exceptional, and not just in music. What are your other ‘hobbies?’”

“Information gathering and processing, primarily.” I smiled evasively, but with eyes I hoped teased at something more. “I know all  sorts of things.”

“Really? What do you know about me?”

For a brief moment, my Percy Blakeney-based persona faltered. This was no longer an act, nor recitation of facts, nor applying charm to misdirect and soothe. I had to deduce her completely and accurately, and then present my findings in a way that would flatter rather than offend. The Scarlet Pimpernel could help with the last part. But the first part—there could be no role-playing with that. It was all me, and I was not completely confident that I could do it. 

But I smiled sweetly and began by taking her hand and asking, “May I?”

Still smiling a serpent’s smile, she gave a tiny nod. 

After examining her hands, I moved to her clothing, her hair, her face. It wasn’t necessary for clues—I had my theories based completely on her behaviours already—but I was trying to be just subtly sensual enough to feed the attraction for me that both she and Anne had admitted to. 

“If you don’t mind the cliché, you were abused by your father as a child. But what made it worse, no one believed you or helped you when you tried to get it to stop. The money and power of your family was more than enough to squelch any doubts as to your father’s innocence.”

It was rare for such extreme hatred to come from anything other than some sort of abuse. If pressed I would have guessed sexual, as that was easier to hide the outward signs of, as well as more commonly denied because of increased social stigma to the perpetrator if caught. Her distrust and hatred of the entire system said it was more than just her parents that betrayed her. She blamed everyone in that circle. Of course, I was guessing. But sexual abuse is so common, and also so commonly covered up, that I knew my chances of being correct were unfortunately very high.

“The entire system was therefore against you. So you had to live a lie—that everything was fine, even perfect. Hair, nails, makeup, manners, all those things were part of the facade you had to maintain, but you soon began to realise, even as your hatred and anger grew, that this facade gave you power. It was a tool you could use to undermine the entire system that had failed you.”

A hardness had come to the edges of her features, but that serpentine smile remained, which bode well for my observations. 

I gave her my most flattering smile. “I must express my most sincere admiration. You are exceptionally clever and good at what you do. And, Anne!”

I turned to the officer, giving her a rather adulating smile. “You are her perfect match! Both of you, angling into the financial, aristocratic, and legal systems so expertly! Because Edina is perfectly right, of course. People  want to believe the good face you show them. Which gives you a thousand times more power over them. It’s far easier to steal the eggs when you have the keys to the hen house.”

I laughed, a higher-pitched, delighted laugh. “This football scheme, though! This was marvellous! You have Stewart Burwick beguiled and ready to do the grunt work, then that arrogant prat Aaron Dalton to spearhead the business and financial charge. Two perfectly malleable puppets set up to take the fall if anything went wrong. But if nothing went wrong, you are still victorious. Dalton’s scheme, while ludicrous, was big enough and had enough money behind it to cause havoc to the status quo.” I laughed again, this time clapping my hands together. “I mean, what better symbols of the mindless status quo than sport and parliament? Sport for the common man, parliament for the self-aggrandised elite. MacIntosh was the perfect melding of the two. If the scheme succeeded, you could disrupt both with the death of an MP and the introduction of a sport system  designed to wreak havoc on Britain’s current pastimes. If it didn’t, Burwick and Dalton would take the fall—but both dying before being able to tie anything back to you.”

I couldn’t decide if Anne’s wide-eyed expression, coupled with a hesitant smile, was more shock or admiration. Edina’s face, however, showed no surprise whatsoever. She just continued to smile that horrible smile. 

I was hoping that the cheery and admiring smile I passed between the two of them seemed as sincere as I needed it to be. “Darlings, I am ever so sorry I played a part in the disruption of your plan. I hope you can see that I didn’t have much choice at the time. I assume you are luring Burwick here to take care of him? May I be of assistance? As a small token of apology?”

Edina’s cold smile broke into a laugh. “You would help us kill someone as part of an apology?”

I pulled back the sleeve of my sweatshirt, revealing my forty-eight stitches. “I do have this bit to pay him for as well.”

Her calculating face returned, her eyes once again assessing the whole of me. “Anne, take Miss Bedingfield up to your perch. I doubt she could help much with Stewart, but she’ll probably come in handy when we deal with Holmes and Watson.”

The fuel behind my smile faltered, but I hoped no one noticed before I renewed it with my determination to do whatever I could to protect my absent allies.


	18. Chapter 18 (John Watson POV)

The neighbourhood where Stewart Burwick lived was neither fancy nor overly coarse. His building held eight flats, with Burwick’s being on the upper floor in the back. As we climbed the stairs, I saw Sherlock pull his lock picks from his pocket.

“Don’t you think he’s been and gone already? It’s been over two hours since they lost Emma.”

“Possible. But I think they may be a little overconfident in their current position, and that may have bought us some time. They know Emma saw them, of course. And I’m sure Edina has pressed the idea of urgency. But they went to lengths to hide their identities from her, and most likely think we couldn’t possibly have found their names by now. They don’t realise that we know about Edina, or Dalton, or football. So they probably think they are safe for at least a few hours before the ship needs to leave.”

Burwick’s door was open in about two seconds, so we slipped in, closed the door behind us, and looked around. It only took about ninety seconds for us to ascertain that he hadn’t been here to pack anything yet, which was a relief. Hopefully it would make the next part much easier. 

Sherlock was never one for sitting around and waiting, so we continued poking around the flat, hoping that Burwick and Stiles would show up soon. The place was a little sloppy—pretty obviously the home of a bachelor—but it really didn’t seem like the home of a criminal. There was a lot of sport memorabilia: trophies from his youth in the states, photos of teams and of a person I could only assume was Stewart Burwick posing with people I assumed were somehow important in American football. There were also pictures of him looking like a coach with various ages of youth football teams. He looked happy. He looked normal. 

Then Sherlock handed me a framed photograph of Stewart Burwick with a woman with long, blond, curly hair, a big smile, and too much eye makeup. She might have been pretty if it weren’t for that.

“Edina Mattix?”

Sherlock nodded. “There’s at least a dozen of them around the flat, dating from about a year ago to recently. She’s been grooming him for a while.”

“Didn’t Dalton say they’d only been trying to get the stadium for the last six months?”

Sherlock nodded. “I can only imagine she would have considered him useful to have to hand, even if she didn’t have a specific scheme at the time. For all we know, she may have multiple men ‘on retainer’ for such purposes.”

The thought was unpleasant, though we had seen similar things many times before.

A scraping of a key in a lock came from the door. Burwick was home. I drew my gun and both of us stood alert, watching. 

It opened, the light flicked on, and there was an intense but very short jolt of movement, ending with Stewart and Stiles with their hands up.

Stewart shut his eyes and breathed heavily through his nose. He didn’t seem angry or scared so much as incredibly frustrated, a little disappointed, and just enough ‘I knew it couldn’t last’ to completely defuse him. Stiles, however, kept looking at Stewart frantically, as if waiting for his friend to think of something brilliant and save them. He was terrified. 

Stewart opened his eyes and looked at both of us. “You must be those detectives we were warned about. I didn’t believe you were as good as I was told. I guess I was wrong.”

“Quite wrong,” said Sherlock, gesturing for Stewart to take a seat on the couch. In Stewart’s own flat. 

Stewart took the seat docilely, and though Stiles was bouncing nervously, he sat next to his friend. “Why aren’t you just taking us in?”

Sherlock sat in the chair opposite the couch, crossing his legs in the way he had of trying to dominate the entire room. “Because you two have been merely pawns. We’re after the queen.”

Stewart cocked his head slightly, trying to look confused. Sherlock rolled his head around on his neck, annoyed.

“Oh, come on. You have pictures of Edina all over your flat. We knew about her before we knew about you.”

Stewart exhaled heavily, his head and shoulders drooping. But he said nothing. Stiles just continued to look like a trapped rodent, his eyes darting between Stewart and Sherlock. 

Sherlock sighed, undoubtedly annoyed that Mr Burwick wasn’t just giving up immediately. “She has been using you, setting you up, this entire time. Surely you  must see that by now. You were the muscle in her game, but now that you’ve finished your usefulness, you are going to be tossed like week-old fish.”

This goaded Burwick into reacting, shaking his head vigorously. “Edina and I have been together for nearly a year. This whole football thing only started up about eight months ago. So she couldn’t be just using me.”

Sherlock’s normal, cruel smirk—showing his derision to the normal person’s weakness for ‘sentiment’—flashed only momentarily across his face, quickly replaced by a look both serious and concerned.

“She’s been playing you like a fiddle, Mr Burwick. Setting you up and keeping you in reserve for the perfect game to use you in. And you’ve played remarkably well.”

Stewart only shook his head more emphatically. “No. We love each other. She was only trying to get this football team going for me.”

Sherlock’s smirk broke through. “She actually convinced you this was your idea? I’ve looked around your flat. You’re not a murderer.”

The large man’s shoulders rose and fell, his face contorting as he tried to resolve some internal conflict. “No, but it didn’t start that way. I had just mentioned a few times how much I missed football. Real, American football. I used to be really good, you know? High school football star, first string running back in college. I was devastated when none of the NFL teams picked me up after graduation.”

He looked up to see Sherlock’s face starting to glaze over, so he rushed the next part of the story. “Anyway, I finally got picked to play for the Claymores in Edinburgh. But they folded less than two years after I came here, and it was just over. I’ve been making do as a coach and PE teacher, but it’s not nearly the same, you know? So Edina said she knew some people and maybe we could get something going. Something really good, not just the pee wee leagues they already have. I couldn’t play anymore, but I could coach. And that would have been enough. Edina saw how much it meant to me. She tried to get this going because she loves me. It’s my fault.”

“And the murders, those were for you, too?”

Stewart squirmed. “She said it would send a message. That it was the only way to convince the SRU to let us use the stadium, and without the stadium the idea would be dead before it began.”

“Did you know about the hacking?”

“The what?”

“Edina arranged to have a trojan in place to shut down the CCTVs at MacIntosh’s murder scene. There was another trojan set to compromise the email system at Westminster. Which, along with the murder of an MP, could be seen as an act of terrorism. The crown does not look kindly on terrorists.”

Stewart’s eyes grew wide. “I didn’t know he was an MP until after, I swear. I don’t pay attention to politics over here. And I didn’t know anything about the hacking. Edina—”

“Knew the whole time. She had worked with him on official matters before, and if that doesn’t convince you, the trojan in the Parliamentary email system should.” Sherlock leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and addressed Stewart Burwick intensely, like a friend trying to save a friend. He did know how to play people when he wanted to. 

“She has been meticulously sloppy the entire way, because her goal was  not  to realise your dream of returning to American football. If she were truly interested in getting the football scheme going, she wouldn’t have gone to such elaborate lengths to taint the acquisition of Murrayfield with such heinous crimes that, if successful, public perception of the sport would doom the team to catastrophic failure.”

Doubt was beginning to creep into his expression, but still he resisted. “No. Why would she do that? Why would anyone do that? That wouldn’t even make sense.”

“Not to a normal, well-adjusted person, no. But she is full of hate. Hate for the big and powerful, but not just the faceless corporations and greedy capitalists. It’s hate for the system that made her. The system that hurt her, tormented her, and refused to protect her. She is trying to destroy it from the inside out.”

At last, realisation began to dawn. But it didn’t produce anger. It only seemed to produce a mountain of pity and sadness. He turned back to Sherlock and asked, “How can I help her?”

Sherlock blinked. Sympathy for normal people extremely difficult for him. Sympathy for manipulating murderesses was impossible. Still, he quickly responded, “Help us bring her in. They will give her the help she needs, and no one else will be hurt while she heals.”

Stiles, who had been rocking back and forth on the couch this whole time, grabbed Stewart’s arm at this point. “It’s a trick, Stu! Don’t listen! They just want to put us all in prison!”

Stewart turned to Stiles, patting his hand. His smile was sad and kind at the same time. “We’re going to prison anyway, Stiles. But maybe this way we can get some help for Edina.”

Stiles whimpered and went back to rocking, but eventually nodded. 

Sherlock, whose expression had been showing halfway believable sympathy, now became inappropriately cheery again. “Splendid. I assume Miss Mattix asked you to meet her at a port, probably Leith. You can tell us exactly which berth on the way.”

  


We took a cab—Sherlock didn’t want Stewart driving his own car—and had reached the Port of Leith by one forty-five. It was dark and quiet, which is always unnerving when you are hunting down a murderer. 

Stewart and Stiles had been told to meet Edina on the Forth ports, and were going to follow through with that. They had brought small suitcases—though Stewart’s was empty—to avoid suspicion. Sherlock and I were going to be watching from behind a nearby building, to make sure Edina didn’t hurt Stewart. We preferred to take her in alive, of course, but if she pulled a weapon on Stewart, I would be ready. Burwick was to restrain her when he got close enough, and then we would come clean up. Deceptively straightforward.

It was an interesting contrast, watching Burwick and Houghton—that was Stiles’ last name, we found out—next to each other. Burwick had become more lethargic, calm, and resigned the closer we got to the docks. Houghton, on the other hand, had become increasingly jittery and nervous. 

When we reached the start of the right dock, Sherlock and I went right, to stay behind the buildings, while Stewart and Stiles went left. It was even more odd watching that pair walk away: Stewart striding like a great, calm giant, and Stiles fidgeting all around him like a tiny dog that didn’t know how to heel.

The right side of the dock was narrower and had no ships against it. The lighting all along the docks was poor, but we dared not use torches for fear of attracting unwanted attention. Still, Sherlock and I had tracked down criminals in a multitude of situations, so I was not overly nervous and I doubt Sherlock was either. There were always risks, of course. But that was a large reason why we did it. 

The end of the long warehouse was about ten metres beyond where Stewart was supposed to meet Edina, so we had to hurry to get ahead of them. The rendezvous was scheduled for two a.m., so we were just a little early, but as soon as Stewart and Stiles had reached the lamppost that was to be the meeting spot, we saw Edina walking out of the shadows of the warehouse towards them. Stewart smiled at her, though Stiles’ face continued to show nothing but terror. She held out her arms in a warm greeting, and I was pleased—though a little surprised—that she held no weapons. Perhaps we had been wrong about her. Perhaps she really did—

A distant rifle shot rang out, and Stewart collapsed to the ground. Stiles screamed and ran, while Edina merely put her hands in her pockets, turned around, and walked back towards the shadows. 

“The shot came from that ship across the pier!” I hissed to Sherlock. “If we run out after Edina, we’re sitting ducks to that sniper. I’ll make my way up there to take care of him, but it might take a few minutes. Don’t go after Edina until I signal you.” My last sentence was kind of superfluous, since I knew Sherlock would always do whatever he damn well pleased, but it made me feel a little better. As I turned to run back the way we had come, Sherlock wasn’t even paying attention to me, but was focused on the area where Edina had disappeared. 

I ran along the back of the warehouse as fast as my legs could carry me. Sherlock wouldn’t wait for my signal, I was sure. He would just expect me to have taken care of the sniper quickly, so I had to make sure he was right. 

Unlike Sherlock, I didn’t have a ton of random facts in my head just in case I happened to be trying to track down a sniper on a cargo ship in a Scottish port in the dark. I didn’t know much about ships or ports in general, as a matter of fact—I had been in the Army, not the Navy. But I knew which ship I was trying to get to, and the basics of remaining unseen, so that would have to do. 

The warehouse was actually longer than the ship, so though I was well past the stern when I reached the other end. It wasn’t a huge, modern container ship, but seemed to be an older freighter. There was a single gangplank leading to the deck, which I couldn’t dare take, as it was too obvious and easy a target for the sniper.

While I was trying to figure out how to board the ship, I was distracted by a loud, female voice that seemed to come from right above me. 

“Greetings, Mister Holmes, Dr Watson. Welcome to my parlour.”

I looked up in shock, thinking I had been found. But I saw no one. Then, in the dim light from the bulb on the side of the building, I saw the edge of a small box. A speaker. She had been waiting for us, setting a trap well in advance. 

The same voice then came from closer to the ship. “You  have thrown a wrench into some of my plans, but I don’t mind another opportunity to play.”

She had set multiple speakers around the dock. The audio quality was very good, so it would be excessively difficult to figure out if a voice were from her or a speaker. I wanted to shoot the speaker above me, but I couldn’t alert the sniper to my location. I had to get on that boat, eliminate that threat and then hope that Edina really wasn’t armed. Which seemed doubtful.

I saw it then—harder to see because it was further from the lamps, was a great mooring cable leading onto the ship. It swayed slightly with the movement of the water, and it would be difficult to manoeuvre in the dark. Not to mention I would have to pocket my gun to traverse it, leaving me even more vulnerable. But it seemed to be my only option, so I ran for it. 

As I ran, Edina’s voice came from a number of other locations. A smaller building, right across from the end of the warehouse where I had just been hiding. Far down, near the other end where I hoped Sherlock still lay in wait, another smaller building rang with her taunts. Then another, seeming from the bridge of the ship. It was unnerving, but I had to ignore it as I carefully made my way up that huge mooring cable. 

Another shot rang out, making me freeze in place. Had I been seen, or Sherlock? The sniper seemed far too collected and precise to have made a shot without a clear provocation. But then Edina’s voice came again, actually giving me some reassurance. She laughed. “Oh, Mr Holmes, are you trying to make us waste ammunition, or simply distract us? As to the first, don’t worry, we are well stocked. As to the second, it won’t help you. We have distractions of our own.”

Mooring cables are not meant to be climbed, and my hands were not used to this rough steel. The cable itself was a good twenty metres long, so by the time I reached the ship, my hands were stinging. The cable came from an opening near the top of the ship rather than the deck, so I had to clamber the last five metres up to the deck, leaving me breathless and shaking and worried that I had made enough noise to not only alert the sniper, but wake the dead. But I saw no one on the deck at all as I quickly hid myself behind a crate that had been tied to the deck. 

Edina’s voice sounded again, this time from the deck again. “I assume that clamour at the stern of the ship was our intrepid Dr Watson. I have done enough research to know you are more than just a blogger and a doctor, of course. But we have some surprises for you as well.”

There was a loud noise not five metres from the crate I hid behind. It was too loud to be accidental, but pulled my gun and turned to look anyway. What I saw threw me to my core.

Officer Anne Leaper. Holding a gun to Emma Bedingfield’s head.

  


  


  


“Hello, Doctor. Nice night for a sea voyage, wouldn’t you say?” Her smile was disturbingly cheery for someone who had just killed one person and had a gun to the head of another. 

Emma’s face looked a little guilty and a lot nervous. Had Anne returned to the hotel and taken Emma as a hostage, or had Emma actually awakened and found her way out here? I didn’t have a chance to ask.

Edina’s voice came again, from another location. “See? I think our distraction trumps any you could try. She tried to convince us that she would happily join our little team. But I had her at a disadvantage. I had seen her dancing at the ball.”

Ice gripped my stomach, shoulders, and hands. “I see you have forsaken your sniper rifle.”

Anne shrugged. “I like to be prepared for every contingency.” Her smile went from cheery to positively wicked. “Now, doctor, if you would please put down your weapon.”

I had loosened my grip to comply when Emma did something no one expected.

She fainted.

Anne, who had also had her hand around Emma’s waist, was suddenly thrown off balance by the dead weight. My grip on my gun instantly retightened, and it took only a split second to aim and fire. Anne Leaper crumpled almost as soon as my bullet penetrated her skull. 

I ran up to make sure she was dead—people had a habit of not being really dead around me—and Emma sat up before I even got there. 

Even as I felt for Anne’s pulse, I looked at Emma, rather shocked. “I thought you fainted.”

“No, it’s just a trick I’ve used before.” She searched Anne’s pockets and retrieved her phone, torch, and then her gun.

“You’ve done this before?”

“No, of course not! But I’ve used it to end self-defence lessons with Colin early.”

She was handling the gun as though it would bite her, which it just might if she kept handling it like that. “Do you even know how to use one of those?”

She shook her head and held it out to me with two fingers. I took it quickly and slipped it in the back of my trousers for backup. Then Emma turned on Anne’s phone, handling it like it was an alien artifact hot to the touch. 

“Don’t you know how to use one of  those?”

“I don’t like them, but I can figure them out,” she responded while picking up Anne’s hand and pressing the index finger to the phone. “Lovely of her to use a fingerprint unlock instead of a passcode.”

She stood while continuing to fiddle with the phone, then cleared her throat, loosened her shoulders and neck, and pressed a button and brought the phone to her face. 

A moment’s pause, then someone answered and Emma whispered in a pained voice, “Edina…the damn doctor shot me and Emma’s run off…I’ve managed to hide from him, but I need help…yes, up by the bridge. I don’t know how long I can stay hidden.”

I stared at her the whole time. She had sounded  exactly like Anne Leaper.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“Do you think it was good enough? I’ve never tried it in front of anyone else before. When I am feeling particularly lonely, I act out characters from books as I read them. It was particularly fun to try to imitate the voices I heard on the radio or telly.”

I blinked at her, still dumbfounded, but she looked at me with confusion and impatience. “John? Why are you staring at me like that? We’ve got to hide. Edina’s on her way, and she’s going to be  very angry.”

I shook my head to regain my focus, then glanced around and saw a particularly large crate surrounded by empty pallets. 

“This way.” I waved Emma on and ran towards the crate. “Why would Edina be that angry?”

“She and Anne were lovers. In fact, I think Anne may have been the only person she cares about. She is going to be livid indeed.”

I dragged a pallet to the back of the crate and set it against the side, its slats horizontal like a ladder. I motioned to Emma, who, after a moment of unease, began climbing up the pallet boards. Once to the top, she was still too short to reach the top of the crate, so I had to boost her the last bit, then I clambered up after her. She was already on her stomach, peeking out over the edge at Anne’s body. 

I pulled out my phone and texted Sherlock about Anne and our trap for Edina, then joined Emma at the edge of the crate. 

“Did Anne come back to the hotel to take you hostage?” I was now whispering to help us stay undetected, but I really wanted to know.

Emma also replied in a whisper. “Oh, heavens, no. I made my way out here after I woke up. Then Anne caught me unawares. Do you have your gun ready?”

I held it up for her, then resumed aiming toward the path from the gangplank. “That was clever, that faint. But how could you be sure I could take care of Anne that quickly?”

Her eyes were scanning the deck, but she still responded very matter-of-factly, “Sherlock wouldn’t trust you so completely if you couldn’t.”

I smiled at the compliment, but then she added, “And I assume he can’t hit the broad side of a barn, since he apparently doesn’t carry his own gun.”

I snorted again. “Stop making me laugh. We need to stay quiet, and this is a crime scene.”

She grinned. I was liking her more than I had expected. 

Then I heard the hiss of a woman’s whisper from across the deck.

“Anne?”

I aimed my gun toward the sound, but I still could not see well enough to take a shot. Edina may not be armed, but I did not dare waste a chance by letting her know our location.

A little motion, then a grief-stricken cry. “Annie!”

I could see motion running toward us and Anne’s body, but then my phone buzzed. It was just a vibrate—apparently I had set it to vibrate rather than silent, a fatal mistake—but it was enough. The shadow that was Edina scuttled off with an angry cry. 

“Dammit.” I remembered whom I was with. “Sorry. So sorry.”

Emma shook it off, her eyes wide, scanning the deck even more emphatically, her fingers gripping the edge of the crate as though she were hanging from it. 

“Do you see anything?” She hissed.

I shook my head, scanning the whole deck as frantically as possible. 

Then a large engine started up and both of us froze. The noise began coming closer.

“I’m going after her,” I said, crawling to the back of the crate again and beginning to back off toward the pallet-ladder.

“Wait!” hissed Emma, “She’s got a forklift!”

I was already hanging off the back of the crate, my feet feeling for the pallet when she said this. I tried to lift myself back up onto the crate, but before I could get a good grip, the crate was hit violently, throwing me onto the deck where I hit my head and lost consciousness.


	19. Chapter 19 (Emma POV)

I saw John disappear from the back of the crate and heard him hit the ground. It did not sound good. But at that moment, I could not check on him because I was trying not to be thrown from the crate myself. After the initial impact, Edina backed up the forklift and rammed it again. I doubt she believed that throwing us from the crate would be enough. She wanted to push us over the side. 

While I desperately gripped the edge of that crate, I worried about John, most likely lying on the ground behind the crate. As Edina continued to push and ram the crate—she couldn’t just push us over the side immediately because the crate had already been tied to the deck--John would be either crushed or pushed over first. But I could see Edina’s face, distorted with hate and grief and anger. There would be no reasoning with her.

The third blow included a loud  crunch of breaking wood, which made me even more terrified. If she managed to destroy the crate, she wouldn’t have to push us over the edge. She could just crush us. 

The forklift tried to back up again, but the fork levers had pierced the crate, lodging themselves so deeply that Edina could not easily dislodge it to ram us again. Cursing, she began working the levers up and down, shaking the crate violently, weakening the joins and making the large box less and less stable. My fingers were sore from clenching the edge of the crate so tightly. Where was Sherlock? John had texted him ages ago.

Then I heard his voice. It was unusually loud and seemed to come from the top of the bridge castle. 

“Hello again, Miss Mattix. Seems your sniper has had a little accident.”

Edina screamed in anger, was finally able to withdraw the forklift from the crate, then reversed and changed gears on the machine so quickly that it wobbled and lurched. She sped forward and rammed into the crate again with another cacophony of shattering wood.

Then I heard Sherlock’s voice again, this time to my left, toward the ramp. It was too far for him to have moved that quickly. He must have taken control of Edina’s speakers. Despite being shaken about on the collapsing cargo, I managed a small grin.

“You don’t like getting your hands dirty, remember, Miss Mattix? Always someone else to do the actual murders. Seems to be against your nature to crush someone with a forklift.”

Sherlock didn’t know John was injured and unconscious behind the crate, so he was probably trying to give John a chance to get a clear shot at Edina. I was also sure that John hadn’t had time to tell Sherlock everything about Edina’s relationship with Anne in his five second text. If he used that information against her, his attempts at distraction might actually work. I had to find a way to signal him without making things perfectly clear to Edina as well.

As Edina rammed the crate again, I estimated that the crate would collapse on the next impact, so I had to hurry. I found myself not only scared and worried, but now I was annoyed at Edina for making it terribly hard to concentrate. Then I thought of something. It was desperate and I wasn’t sure it would work. But I had no time to find another solution.

Tremulously, I started singing a 1960s folk tune. A hum would have been too quiet and words would have been too obvious, so I just sort of sang the tune with ‘lalala,’ trying to make it sound like a nervous habit rather than a signal. Once I felt I had sung enough of it that I hoped Sherlock would have been able to guess my meaning, I switched to a more modern pop ballad. It disturbed my musical sense to mix such disparate genres, but it was the unsung words that were important. I just hoped Sherlock knew the songs. He had been silent since I started, so I knew he was at least trying to understand my meaning.

The forklift had become lodged in the crate again, buying me a few seconds, but Edina was rattling my perch so violently that I couldn’t sing for a few moments. I didn’t have the time for this! I had to sing through the shaking. A few bars of an appalling early 1990s sappy pop song, another more modern ballad, and a very old folk tune. That was all I had. I prayed it was enough, because Mattix had loosened the forklift and was backing up for the last impact.

“Oh, dear, I have been remiss, Miss Mattix. I didn’t tell you about Anne earlier. Not a very bright girl. Saw through her incredibly quickly. But she was pretty enough. Thought she might be worth a shag later. Shame John killed her so quickly.”

Oh goodness.  That did it. Screaming fit to wake the dead, Edina stopped the forklift. She buried her head in her hands, continuing to scream, then leapt from the forklift and ran to Anne’s body. I was still a little too shaken to move. I just watched as she bowed and went to Anne’s—foot? Oh God. Anne had an ankle holster. Edina grabbed that gun and took off towards the gangplank, where Sherlock’s voice had last come from. 

Quickly and delicately, as the crate was now quite unstable, I backed myself to the back edge of the crate. The pallet had been knocked over ages ago, which meant I had no choice but to drop. I made sure I wasn’t too close to John and backed off the edge, hung myself as low as I could by my fingers, and fell to the deck. It hurt, but I don’t think I damaged anything. My biggest concern right now, though, was John.

I crawled to him and was feeling for a pulse and checking his head when Sherlock hurried over, crouching as he ran. I don’t know where he had come from and I didn’t care. While his pulse and breathing seemed good, the fact that he was still unconscious worried me. I hadn’t had any experience dealing with head injuries since the Great War, but I had read a lot about them more recently.

“I think he’s going to be fine.” I wasn’t sure of that, but I didn’t want Sherlock to be too worried. He had to take care of Edina before she calmed down enough to think clearly and come after us before John recovered. I carefully reached around and pulled Anne’s gun from behind John’s belt and handed it to Sherlock. “Take one of his guns—he took Anne’s.” 

He took it carefully, and I could see him just well enough to know he was still worried about his friend, but knew he could not risk the distraction right now. So, I assume to lighten the situation, he whispered, “Sandy Denny and Coldplay? Really?”

“You try thinking up musical code while someone is trying to crush you with a forklift!” I hissed through my teeth.

But he smiled at me and winked as he pocketed the gun. “Take care of John.” And then he ran off.

I was still shaking from the crate, but I was feeling very relieved. I pulled out Anne’s torch and looked over John in the better light. His temple was bleeding, which could explain why he was unconscious, but I couldn’t really tell how bad his injury was yet. I swung the torch around the area to see if whatever he hit would give me a clue. There was a small stack of boards nearby with blood on the edge of one, I had to assume that was what he had hit. Wood was better than steel, and an edge was better than a corner. 

The rest of him seemed uninjured, so I pulled out my handkerchief and began dabbing at the wound on his head. He groaned and was trying to open his eyes, another good sign. Despite how long it seemed I had been since he had fallen, I doubt it was truly longer than eight or nine minutes. 

A number of yards away, I heard screaming and gun shots and the faint sounds of a scuffle. More gun shots, more scuffling. I wanted to be over there, helping, despite the fact that I was terribly clumsy and inexperienced. But I didn’t dare leave John. Then it quieted and I worried even more. The fact that these two did this sort of thing every day was no guarantee that today would be without tragedy. Then I heard two sets of approaching footsteps, one more forced than the other.

When Sherlock came back to our little corner leading Edina in handcuffs, I released a breath I didn’t realise I had been holding. 

“The police are on their way,” he said as he forced Edina to have a seat against the crate. She was sobbing quietly, though it was occasionally interrupted by muttered bursts of angry cursing through her teeth. I actually pitied her.

Sherlock sat on the deck next to John and I, but within arm’s reach of Edina, with a gun trained on her. “Why do you pity her? She was the cause of the deaths of four people.”

I forced my eyes back at John, embarrassed that my feelings had been showing on my face. “Because she had been in so much pain, and she found someone who shared that pain. They loved each other. And now that person is lying dead less than thirty feet from here.”

I heard the sirens coming up the pier, and by the flashing lights of police cars I could see from the corner of my eye, Sherlock staring at me, trying to understand.

  



	20. Chapter 24 (John Watson POV)

I fully woke up on an ambulance gurney, with a headache and four faces looking down on me: Sherlock, Emma, a paramedic and a police officer. 

“There he is,” said Emma, smiling with relief.

I blinked, squinted, and tried to sit up, but the paramedic stopped me as he checked the dilation of my eyes and a ran a few other tests that were more accurate now that I was conscious. While he ran them, however, I had to ask, “What happened?”

Emma’s face became deadly serious. “Oh, John, it was horrid. There were Thugees, and a pack of wolves, and a railway track, and an old steam train with a circular saw attached to the front. Just awful.”

Everyone had stopped to watch her as she spoke, with varying degrees of shock and confusion. I blinked my bleary eyes. “What?”

Sherlock turned to me again. “Rabid wolves, John. They were rabid.”

Emma was pushed beyond her limits with that addition. The sides of her mouth tightened for a few moments before she had to close her eyes and turn her head away with giggles. 

Sherlock was still very deadpan, but this time he addressed Emma. “You are an embarrassment to the art of sarcastic wit.”

Her giggles only became worse, causing her to shake and tears to leak from her eyes. Sherlock sighed with mock shame as he stood and put his hands into his coat pockets. “This officer will want your account of the events before your fall. Edina has been taken into custody. We’ll talk later.”

The paramedic propped up the head of the gurney and handed me the icepack he had been holding to my head, while the officer got out his notebook and the questioning began. But even as I answered the questions posed to me, I couldn’t help but notice that Emma and Sherlock had retreated to separate areas of the dock. 

Emma’s arms were crossed in front of her chest, the mirth had quickly fled from her face, and her head was frequently bowed. Officers frequently went to talk to her, making her posture fold even further in upon itself, revealing the reticence to interact that was so dominant in her nature, but I had almost forgotten about. 

Sherlock’s body language was close to the normal, overseeing arrogance and impatience he usually showed at the closure of an investigation, cowing or irritating every official who addressed him. But every time his eyes slipped sideways in Emma’s direction, his eyebrows tilted ever so slightly in an expression closer to regret than I had ever thought possible from him. 

The drugging had not been forgotten, and I was sure that as soon as the basic necessities of the police cleanup had been completed and we were allowed to leave, things were going to get ugly. Or, more likely, fall apart in quiet desperation. And I didn’t want to deal with the fallout. I couldn’t stand to see my friend hurting while denying his pain.

For now, though, I had to answer questions about a completely different sort of tragedy. In the course of the questioning, I found out more details about what had happened while I had been unconscious, as well as a few other details I had not known. After our separation at Dalton’s, Anne had taken the businessman to a remote location and killed him, then had changed clothes and come here to meet Edina. She ran into Emma on the way and had wanted Emma to join them—apparently, she had taken quite a fancy to our young colleague—but Edina did not trust her, and told Anne to hold her for leverage. Edina had known who Sherlock was the entire time, had anticipated his being able to find Burwick after Emma had escaped, and had planned this entire scene at the port to take care of all of us at once. Apparently Sherlock wasn’t the only genius drama queen in the world. 

But my killing of Anne had thrown the plan into disarray. Anne was everything to Edina. They had been together for about ten years, bonding over mutual histories of abuse and distrust of a system that had failed to protect them. They not only loved each other, but trusted in the skills of the other enough that when Anne had been bested in a battle of weapons with me, the shock was more than Edina could bear. 

Even after she had been taken hostage, however, Emma had continued to play to Anne’s weaknesses, getting her to divulge details such as the location of Dalton’s body and Anne’s bloody uniform, and being allowed to see where Anne had hidden the rifle when she had switched to the handgun for the confrontation with me. Anne had been more trusting of Emma than Edina had been, allowing Emma to gather information that would be the final undoing of this corrupt officer’s reputation—as well as the final evidence needed to clear our names. 

Stiles Houghton was nowhere to be found, and the police were now searching Edinburgh for him. He seemed to have been just a small, supporting player in the entire production, though, and I doubted he would be much trouble. Anne’s guns were taken as evidence, Edina was escorted away, and aside from the mutual irritation between Sherlock and the police that always accompanied our involvement with official matters, we seemed to have ended on the good and innocent side of their assessments. After the usual admonition to remain available for future questioning, we were allowed to go.

The paramedic, finally convinced that I would be okay and that I had friends to watch for unusual symptoms, allowed me to get up off the gurney. I checked my watch. It was now quarter of four in the morning. It had been a very long day. 

I walked up to Sherlock. 

“Clean bill of health, then?” 

I nodded. “You okay?”

The shield of arrogance went up instantly. “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

I shrugged. “Just checking.” I turned my body in Emma’s general direction. Sherlock followed my motion just long enough to make a deduction, then turned away and said nothing. He could be  so bloody annoying. 

“You should go talk to her.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re wrapping up here, you pulled her into this investigation, and it would be polite.”

He was very focused on the architecture of the bridge castle. 

“Sherlock, at the very least we will have to be taking a train back to London with her tomorrow or later today. And I am not particularly keen on the idea of a five hour train ride in surly silence. You should at least  try  to apologise.”

He looked at me, his face like that of a petulant five year old. Then he turned and strode toward her in all of his characteristic braggadocio. It may have been overreach, but I felt compelled to follow him. At least to supervise. He could be so stupendously obtuse in such matters.

Her arms were still crossed in front of her and she was focused on the ground, just turning her torso back and forth slowly. Sherlock’s head bowed slightly to address her.

“That was, uh, good, what you did back there. With the music.”

I hadn’t heard about this, and wanted to hear more, but didn’t dare intrude. Emma just shrugged, still avoiding eye contact. “It wouldn’t have worked if you hadn’t been able to identify the songs.”

He looked at her more seriously. “What made you think I could identify them? You wouldn’t have tried it otherwise.”

She stopped her back and forth motion. “When we were at Scotland Yard, I could see you play violin.” She splayed her fingers in front of her. “You have very…musical fingers. And there was the dancing.”

“Mm,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully, and was silent. 

Still avoiding looking up at either of us, she refolded her arms and resumed her swaying motion. It was quiet for a number of more moments, and I was afraid we were going to make no progress at all. But then she stopped swinging back and forth, lifted her head slightly, and raised her eyes to him with what looked like a great deal of effort. 

“Why didn’t you want me along anymore?”

“It was becoming dangerous—” 

But she was shaking her head vehemently before he even finished saying those four words. “No. It had already been dangerous for me and I didn’t care. It was  my choice, not yours. I wasn’t just something to be protected to keep you out of trouble with DI Lestrade.”

Her voice cracked and she had to look away again, but it was impossible to hide the trembling in her lower lip. “I had known from the beginning that you were only being nice to me to ensure my cooperation. And I know it was stupid, but by this evening….I…I had started to feel like a real person, like I was valuable and my input and presence mattered. But when I realised you had drugged my tea, and were so unrepentant about it, it all crumbled. I was again an object of interest instead of a person. And I didn’t like that feeling.”

Sherlock had been watching her through her entire speech, and he had that look that I have so rarely seen in him. The look of someone who had unintentionally but acutely screwed up and now felt the impact of his actions. 

“I am sorry. I…I have drugged John so many times that I didn’t realise how hurtful it would seem.”

Okay,  that was irritating. But I was determined not to interrupt unless absolutely necessary.

“I knew that it would have been pointless to ask you to stay behind. And after seeing how much you had already been hurt, I couldn’t put you in any more danger.” He paused. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

She looked up at him, her narrowed eyes trying to determine if she could trust him. “Do you promise?” It was a child’s question, full of the idea that a promise held more power than other words or expectations. 

In matters such as these, with Sherlock, it did. Because when it came to interpersonal relations, he was extremely like a child himself.

His eyes made contact with hers and they looked at each other for a long second.

“I promise.”

Her shoulders relaxed, her eyes opened fully, her arms unfolded, and a small smile began to show. She took in and released a big breath. “OK, then, as long as it doesn’t happen again.”

Sherlock relaxed as well, his smile lighting up his face. 

“Just so we’re clear, that promise covers all possible variations of incapacitation. So don’t get any ideas.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She put her hand on her stomach. “Is anyone else starving? I think it’s been nearly twenty four hours since I’ve eaten anything and I am beyond peckish.”

And just like that, the conversation turned to finding a restaurant in Edinburgh that would be open before four in the morning. I had really expected more fireworks. Now I wasn’t sure if I was wary that we hadn’t heard the last of this, or if I were merely a little disappointed.

  


  


Sherlock called a cab while I called Colin, who was overjoyed that the case had been resolved without more injuries to our party. 

“I’m less than an hour away, but it seems my trip was not really necessary now. If you don’t mind, I am going to just check into a hotel when I get there and see you all in the morning. I mean, later in the morning.”

“That should be fine. We’re just going to grab some breakfast and then head back to the hotel ourselves.”

We rang off and I joined Sherlock and Emma walking down the gangplank towards the area where we were to meet the cab. Emma looked over at me and winced. 

“How are you feeling, doctor? I was very concerned about your head.”

I shrugged. “I’ve had worse. Just have a headache and some nausea right now.” The ice pack was making my fingers ache, but it felt good against my temple. 

“Perhaps ‘John the Gun’ should avoid eating breakfast right away,” Sherlock said with the slightest hint of a smirk. Emma groaned.

“I don’t understand. ‘John the Gun?’”

Emma put her fingertips to her forehead, which made her lose concentration just enough for her to stumble on the gangplank. She might have tumbled into the water, except Sherlock grabbed her with such alacrity that we all just stared for a moment, astonished. 

Even in the dim light, I could tell Emma was blushing. “Thank you,” she said softly, then we all slowly resumed our walk down the gangplank.

“Um,” she tried to continue with the same volume and mood we had had before she had stumbled, but it was obvious she was a little shaken. “So, I was trying to tell Sherlock that you were hurt and that Edina’s feelings for Anne were her weakness. But I had to do it without letting Edina know what I was saying, so I sort of just…sang…the tunes to a few songs and hoped he would be able to figure out what I was trying to tell him. ‘John the Gun’ was the first song.”

“I’ve never even heard of it. What was the second?”

“’Fix You.’”

I laughed, but Sherlock, in all seriousness, said, “Atrocious combination.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I was desperate. But you must admit the next song was worse.”

Sherlock squinched up the side of his face and tilted his head as if ready to disagree, but I broke in before he could say anything. “What was it?”

Emma actually shuddered. “’Weakness.’ Horrid sap pop from the late eighties or early nineties. I shall have to scrub my brain with soap to clear it out completely again.”

I laughed, even though it made my head hurt more. “Any more?”

“A song called ‘Annie’ and another called ‘Died for Love.’”

We were now at the roadside, waiting for the cab. Sherlock, hands in his pockets, rolled his eyes. “It was as if you were  trying  to stump me. Four relatively recent songs and then an old folk song at least a hundred years old.”

“To tell the truth, I don’t believe that last one was absolutely necessary. I just tacked it on for good measure.”

“And to test me.”

“I will never tell.”

The cab arrived and Sherlock opened the door for Emma, while I went around to get in on the other side. Before we were all settled, Sherlock told the cabbie to take us to the best and closest restaurant that would be open at this hour of the morning, then sat back in his seat. I had taken the seat facing back, just to see what Sherlock would do—sit next to me, or next to Emma. I was only a little disappointed that he sat next to me, but I can’t say I was surprised.

The cab ride took less than ten minutes, but the road noise and rhythmic passing of the streetlights was soporific, especially since the chatter had pretty much stopped. 

Emma was looking particularly content, a small smile on her lips as she watched out the window with eyes now heavy-lidded with exhaustion. Even with half her face purple from bruising and her hair a mess, she was lovely.

Sherlock’s stern voice startled me. “John, you’re not allowed to fall asleep.”

I hadn’t realised how drowsy I had become. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m not allowed to let you fall asleep for at least an hour.”

“Oh, yes, right.” I badly wanted a kip, but as a doctor, I knew how dangerous head trauma could be so I was just glad when we arrived at the restaurant. 

The cafe was a small, local place that seemed to mostly specialise in French food, though they did have a few more British dishes. We sat at a table by the window, Emma on one side, right up next to the glass, Sherlock directly across from her, and me next to him. 

While I was hungry, I was also too nauseated to order anything but toast. Sherlock’s fare was simple enough but I was glad to see he ordered a full meal. When a case lasted for days, I honestly worried about how little he ate. Emma had not been joking about how hungry she was. Crepes with strawberries, pains au chocolat, eggs Benedict, and two orders of toast. Once she had given the waitress her order, she sat back with a very tired but satisfied smile on her face.

“Colin said you were a picky eater,” said Sherlock with an arched brow. 

Her smile didn’t falter. “I prefer the term  discriminating palate. And while that is generally true, I am  starving. Besides, it’s hard to go wrong with pains au chocolat.” 

Sherlock nodded, then sat up straight in his seat, eyeing the room, always observing. Emma was watching fairly consistently out the window, her drooping eyes and contented smile making me even more drowsy. 

“What is your assessment, after everything?” Sherlock’s voice again made me alert, but though he was looking at his hands on the table, I was quite sure he was not talking to me. Emma sat up again and looked at him.

“I’m sorry?”

“About the investigation.”

She squinted at him. “About this particular investigation, or investigation in general?”

He slid his hands back to his lap and looked at her very dispassionately. “I suppose investigation in general would do.”

She responded with the tiniest of shrugs. “It wasn’t so  very  bad, I suppose. I don’t think I was very good at it, though.”

“I imagine that with a fair amount of practise, you’ll catch on soon enough.” He paused, a little too long in my opinion. “I suppose if you are looking to practise, we could find something for you to do.”

She sighed and looked back out the window. “I suppose I would be amenable to such an idea, if I’ve nothing better to do.”

Even with a concussion, I thought the two of them, at this particular moment, were terrible liars. 

The food came then, which I thought would consume our attention. But it wasn’t two bites in before Emma set down her knife and fork and, after swallowing, cocked an eyebrow and said, “So, when you say you have drugged John ‘so many times….’

“Once,” I answered emphatically, not caring that my mouth was full. “He’s drugged me once.”

“Twice.”

I looked at Sherlock, who was simply eating as though nothing had been said. “No, just that once.”

“No, there was a second time. The fact that you didn’t notice only proves how much you didn’t care.”

“How could you  possibly have done that? I have no other lost time. And you can’t count Baskerville, because that sugar wasn’t actually drugged.”

“It was in the evening and you were going to bed anyway.”

“What was the point, then?”

“I had experiments I was running that night that were loud enough you would have complained, and I didn’t want to hear it.”

I rolled my eyes, then I noticed that Emma was looking back and forth between us and had her napkin over her mouth, trying to hide a smile. When she was able to compose herself, she put her napkin and looked at me sympathetically. 

“You are a very patient friend.”

I turned back to my plate, wishing I had more than toast on it because I really wanted to stab something. “Oh, you have  no idea.”

I had been surprised at the size of Emma’s order, but I found myself even more surprised that, though she behaved with the most impeccable of manners, she ate it  all.  How could someone so tiny eat so much? Sherlock and I, having had far less food, spent the last few minutes just watching her finish her meal. The enjoyment was very obvious in her expression, from the first bite to the last. It was as though she had never had a finer meal in her life.

She finished, crossed her knife and fork across her plate, cleaned her face and hands with her napkin, and then settled back into her seat with the most satisfied of sighs. 

Sherlock watched her curiously. “Was it that extraordinary of a meal?” 

She turned her eyes from the window to him again. “Not really, but…something just made it more satisfying this time.”

She turned her eyes back to the window and it was silent for another minute. Then Sherlock asked, “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Stay at home constantly and not die of boredom.”

The smile that had not left her face since the cab, broadened as she leaned toward him, ever so slightly. “There’s so much to learn, how could one ever become bored? Even at home, there is always something new to read, or study, or create. Though…” Her voice trailed off a little and she closed her eyes, still leaning forward. “I had forgotten what it was like. To be out. To experience things first hand.” 

Her hand lifted delicately in front of her as though she were fingering invisible gossamer. “The tastes, the sounds, the smells, the touch of things. The subtle interactions of people to each other. The chill and dark expanse of night that almost makes me feel like all of space is out there for me to explore. The making of music and seeing the light in someone else’s eyes when it touches them. All the little things that get filtered out in the retelling and editing. Maybe even the ball; feeling a little pretty.”

He blinked. “How could you ever not feel pretty?”

Sherlock’s comment shocked me, but Emma just opened her eyes again to look at him, the edges of her mouth curving up in a smile so gentle and natural that it felt like sitting in your favourite chair, wrapped in a cosy blanket in front of a fire. 

“How could you ever not feel brilliant?”

Sherlock laughed and straightened his posture again, though I had not noticed he had begun to lean in. “I believe you are thinking of someone else entirely.”

She turned her attention back to her plate, picking up her fork and using it to draw spirals in the leftover Hollandaise.

“Don’t think I don’t see it. Everything you observe or deduce is ‘obvious.’ ‘Patent.’ ‘Elementary.’ People think you just say that to belittle their inability to see it. And there is that. But there is also that ridiculously high standard you have for yourself, that you never feel quite able to reach. I think you believe that if you can see it, it must have been ‘obvious.’ On the other side of that coin, missing  anything constitutes an unacceptable failure. You try to believe that you only love the excitement and stimulation of the investigation. But you also  need it. You are trying to fill this hole of perceived inadequacy in yourself that can never quite be filled.”

“That is ridiculous. Everyone who has ever known me will tell you that feelings of inadequacy have never been part of my personality.”

“Really? I see how you are with John. The public generally sees him as ‘just’ a sidekick, if they see him at all. But he’s far more than that. He balances you, validates you, and actually makes you feel like you might be good enough.” She set down her fork, sat up straight, and put her hands in her lap. With her eyes down and her voice very quiet, I almost missed her next statements. “And it breaks my heart that you have ever felt you weren’t ‘good enough.’ Because I have found you to be one of the most enjoyable persons I have ever met.”

The silence that ensued drew out to such a length that I think it became awkward for everyone. Though I did wonder if Sherlock may have been responding in his head, as he had when I had asked him to be my best man. Emma placed her napkin back on the table, avoiding eye contact with either of us, and I guessed it was not so much the silence that made her uncomfortable as the personal revelation.

Not able to stand the tension, and feeling rather like an intruder, I pulled out a couple of twenty pound notes and placed them on the table. “It’s nearly five thirty; we are all exhausted. I think it’s time we went back to the hotel.”

Emma nodded and immediately stood, as did I. Sherlock was a little slower to stand and seemed to no longer be aware of us at all, which he often did when he was thinking about something. While I was used to this happening at any random moment, I was quite sure there was nothing random about it this time. Emma pulled her jacket back on and we left in silence, the mood rather more sombre than it had been only minutes before. 

  


Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to pull out his phone and call a cab, and my head hurt too much to want to pull out my own phone, so we began walking towards a larger thoroughfare, our breath clouding the air like steam engines. We had hardly passed two shops, however, before a voice from an alleyway stopped us. 

“You killed him. Stu’s dead now, and you killed him!”

We turned toward the voice, but the alley was so dark that it was impossible to see anything but darkness. It was not hard to guess what man that voice belonged to, though. The shiver in his voice made me think he had waited out there in the cold for quite a while.

Sherlock’s voice was strong and commanding. “Stiles, it was Anne Leaper that killed him. Edina had planned on killing him the entire time.”

“No! It was your fault! She wouldn’t have killed him if you hadn’t used him to try and trap her!” The sound of a gun cocking put me into soldier mode, my hand instantly going to the gun in my pocket. Sherlock’s posture stiffened. But it was Emma who actually acted, raising her hands in a gesture of submission while she moved forward—in front of us.

“Stiles, we are all sorry about what happened to Stewart. You have to know we would have prevented it if we could. I am especially sorry. If I hadn’t gotten in your way, hadn’t seen Gavin Kenley get beheaded, this wouldn’t have happened.” Her voice was easy and compassionate. I could see Sherlock try to subtly restrain her by placing his hand on her arm, but she just as subtly resisted him. So he tried to defuse the situation another way while trying to get back in front of her.

“Stiles, Anne is dead. Edina is in custody. The people who killed Stewart have paid or will be paying for what they’ve done. There’s no more need for revenge.”

That seemed to unnerve him, because there was a pause. But the reprieve was brief. 

“No, it’s not enough!”

I had been trying to determine his location in the dark alley through his voice, to give me some ability to target him, but I didn’t have enough time. The sound of the shot was massive in the alley. Emma seemed to relax, just before blood blossomed from her neck and she crumpled. Sherlock, directly behind her, stumbled back, shock on his face and blood already seeping from his chest. It was only a moment before he collapsed as well. I turned back to Emma, to see if there was any possibility of helping her. 

But she was gone. 

That’s when Stiles started screaming.


	21. Chapter 21 (Limited Omniscient/Sherlock POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear: this chapter is NOT in first person! It is 3rd person, limited to Sherlock. I know I'm breaking some rules doing it this way, but I couldn't think of a better way to do it.

Sherlock opened his eyes. The area was dimly lit and very quiet. He didn’t remember how he had got there, but when he sat up, John was standing in front of him, wearing a dark jumper with geometric patterns and light coloured trousers.

“Where am I?”

“Your mind palace. Or a part of it. You’re deeply unconscious, so you may be down here for a while, but we need to work fast just in case.”

“We had just wrapped up the MacIntosh case….” He was having a hard time remembering what had happened, and that was very unusual.

John shook his head and put his hand on Sherlock’s arm to refocus him. “You’re not in that part of the palace. This is not about a case. There’s some things you need to see, so I’m here to help you see them.”

He peered at John. “Why would  you  need to help me see something in my own mind palace?”

“There are things you have tucked away that you refuse to look at, Sherlock. The time has come that you need to look at them. This is one of the things I have always been here for.”

He turned around and switched on the light, revealing 221B in all its glory—and then some. Most of it was the same. But in one wall, to the right of the couch, was the arched entrance to a large hallway. It extended further than he could see. 

“This part of the palace is where  you are, not memories for casework. It holds things you may not have realised you were storing. Things you may have set aside, or are trying to keep safe.”

“I don’t recognise it.”

“You usually avoid it. It’s also locked down tighter than the crown jewels. Come on, I’m not sure how much time we have.” He headed into the hallway, and Sherlock followed. The hallway was large and rather long, but held very little.

“Not much down here, is there?”

“You like to pretend this part doesn’t exist. But everyone has one.” As he walked, he checked his pocket for his gun.

“You need a gun?”

“There’s some nasties in the deeper parts. But mostly, it’s just dark and neglected. Nothing to be afraid of.”

While most of the hall was quite empty, there were occasionally bits of decor—paintings or busts or statues, all very beautiful, at random intervals along the hall.

“What are these?”

“You appreciated them at some point. But you just considered them clutter, so they ended up down here.”

“I ‘delete’ all sorts of clutter. This can’t be everything.”

“It isn’t. This is just those things you found special for some reason.”

That explained was why it was so empty.

After maybe a hundred metres, the hallway turned into a staircase, a rectangular spiral sort with crumbling cement steps, going down. 

“There  would be a basement, wouldn’t there.”

John smirked without stopping. “Not afraid, are you? The Sherlock Holmes I know is very rarely afraid.”

“Of course not.” He did not want to admit that he was uncomfortable, especially because he didn’t know why.

After two hundred and ten stairs—he counted them—they reached a platform with one heavy, dirty door. It had a small, barred window. Horrid, snarling noises came from within.

“I recognise this place….”

A dishevelled, wild-eyed face suddenly appeared at the small window, biting and slavering. Jim Moriarty. Sherlock flinched back, though he had somehow expected it.

John put his hand on his gun and watched the door warily. “Yes, nasty piece of work. He’s escaped a couple of times, but you and I have managed to capture him and put him back where he belongs.”

“You and I?—yes, of course you did. I remember one of those times.”

Once John determined the barred door was secure, he headed towards another staircase descending even deeper. 

“The thing I need to show you is down lower. Come along.”

Sherlock followed him, his unease growing. If there was something even deeper than Moriarty, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see it.

To his surprise, instead of becoming dark and dank, after one hundred steps the stairway became brighter. The walls changed from dark stone to rich, golden wood. The smell was pleasant, like old books and leather.

“I really don’t know why this is so far down,” said John as they continued to descend, “Most aren’t so deep.”

“You’ve seen others?”

John shrugged. “A few. They’re normally deep and you often have to pass security. But yours….”

They reached another platform, this one quite wide. All across the opposite side was a tall, solid iron fence, topped with barbed wire, with an old, wrought iron gate in the middle. In front of the gate stood his brother. 

“Mycroft?”

“Of course, little brother. Who else did you expect to be down here? Haven’t I always had to look out for you?”

Sherlock had no idea how to answer that question. 

John walked up to Mycroft and boldly stated, “We need to get past, please, Mycroft.”

“He shouldn’t be down here. I’ve kept him out of this place for a very long time and I don’t think it’s in his best interest to have come now.”

John stood up to him defiantly. “He needs to see. He needs to know.”

“No, he doesn’t. It’s not an advantage.”

“He  should know. It’s his own mind palace, for God’s sake. Who the hell put you in charge?”

Mycroft’s eyes flicked to Sherlock, then returned to John. 

“It’s for his own safety.”

“No it isn’t. It’s because you’re a bloody control freak. Now let us pass.”

Mycroft let out the smallest of sighs and stepped aside. 

“It’s on your head, then.”

“I am prepared for that.”

John stepped up to the gate. Dead ivy vines curled around the edges of it, and beyond it was almost too dark to see. He rummaged around in his pockets and pulled out a large, old-fashioned, iron key.

“You have a key?”

“Yes, of course. You gave it to me, don’t you remember?” His eyes darted to Sherlock, then back to the lock. “No, I guess you don’t.”

He unlocked the gate with a gritty click and pushed. It was heavy and apparently had not been used in some time, so it was reluctant to open.

“Give me a hand, will you?”

Sherlock joined his friend in pushing on the gate, and with some effort, it opened with great grinding and squealing of dirty, rusty metal. 

John brushed his hands off on his trousers. “Like I said, lots of security. Most of the others I’ve seen aren’t as rundown as this, though.” 

It was like a library, with all sorts of books in ten metre tall bookshelves that completely lined the walls, but there was no ceiling. The top of the room was completely open; a whole sky of stars glittering above them. Amongst the books were small trinkets, most of which seemed to be children’s toys and keepsakes. Everything was caked with dust. On the far end of the room was a large door. It was one of those old, rounded doors, with great black hinges and a heavy black doorknob with a keyhole beneath it.

“What is this place?”

“Your inner sanctum, of course. Almost everyone has one. Lots of people think you don’t have one at all, but it just seems to be buried deeper than most.”

Sherlock noticed narrow trails in the dust on some of the shelves.

“Someone else has been here.”

“Yes, there was a break-in, a few years back. I think she even manages to show up occasionally upstairs, though I’m not sure she’s made it down here again. At any rate, she wasn’t able to get in there.” He pointed to the door across the room.

“What’s in there?”

“I’ve no idea. Never been in there, myself. In  here a few times, yes, but never in there. I just know you need to see it.”

Sherlock walked up and tried the door. It was quite firmly locked. Of course.

“How does one get in?”

“I would suppose you need a key.”

“You don’t have one?”

John sat down in a leather armchair. “No. I haven’t been in there, remember?”

“Why are you sitting? I need you to help me find a way in there.”

“You need to do that yourself. I’m staying here. I’m sure you can find a key or some other way in. You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock checked his pockets. Nothing, not even a scrap of paper. Why didn’t he have a key to this room in his own mind palace? He patted down all his clothes and looked about the room, hoping that he could find where he might have hidden the key, but could find it nowhere. It was over an hour before he gave up.

“There isn’t a key! How am I supposed to get in if there isn’t a key?”

John simply shrugged and stayed in his chair. Sherlock cried out in exasperation. Finally, in desperation, he rammed into the door with his shoulder, with as much force as he could muster. Once, twice, three times, until his shoulder ached. 

Then he heard something from within. 

A dog’s bark.  Redbeard.

And a voice. 

He turned to John. “Who’s in there?” 

John looked thoughtful. “Hm. I  had seen someone around, but I had no idea she had gone so deep.”

Suddenly, with a loud click, the door unlocked. Sherlock spun around just as the door opened. 

“Oh, hello.”

“Emma?”

“Yes, of course.” An Irish setter was at her side, wagging his tail excitedly. She was scratching his head absent-mindedly. 

“How did you get in there?”

“Redbeard here gave me the key, didn’t you boy? Sorry, I couldn’t return it as I’d no idea where he found it.” She stepped back, allowing him a better view of a cosy little room, lined with even more bookshelves. Opposite was a large fireplace in which roared a blazing fire, and in front of it sat two tall-backed armchairs and a small table upon which sat a loaded tea tray for two. “You should come in. After all, it’s your mind palace. I was told you never visited, but I hoped.”

Sherlock turned back to John, who just smiled and motioned as if to push him into the room. So, in something of a daze, he turned back to Emma and stepped into the room. Emma closed the door behind him and then walked over and sat in one of the armchairs. Redbeard bounced around the room happily, nuzzling against his leg and then bouncing back to Emma, who pet him vigorously while serving the tea. 

“This poor place was quite neglected when I arrived. There was dust everywhere and the fire was nothing but embers, but I believe I’ve built it up again quite nicely, don’t you think? And I think Redbeard appreciates the company, don’t you boy?”

Redbeard barked, and Sherlock finally looked at him. 

“What are you so glad about? You were supposed to guard this place.”

Being here was bringing back a few memories, but he still had no idea how Emma Bedingfield would have managed to infiltrate the deepest parts of his demesnes.

He began petting his dog. It was always good to see him, but Sherlock’s curiosity was the order of the moment.

“How did you get past all the defences?”

She laughed. “What, Mycroft? That wasn’t so hard. He didn’t even notice me.”

That seemed odd. Mycroft usually noticed  everything. 

“And the gate?”

She smiled in a way that said she was particularly proud of that bit. “I was looking about the wall, wondering if it would even be worth having a look inside. I was curious, of course, but the interior seemed to be quite abandoned. Then I heard Redbeard here—”

The dog barked and she rubbed his head vigorously with both hands. “Yes, boy, you! Such a good dog! —I heard Redbeard, and I thought, it can’t be too awful in there, what with a dog. Dogs can tell about people, you know. Very good judges of character. So I took a better look at the wall. No going over it, obviously. And the gate was guarded and locked, of course. I was poking about the base when I found a soft spot, far off to the side, hardly noticeable at all. I began digging. Took a while, of course. I didn’t think to bring a shovel. Who would, really?”

She picked up the sugar bowl. “Here now, your tea’s going to get cold. You take two sugars, yes?”

He nodded and came and sat in the other armchair while she put two lumps of sugar into his teacup. It was pleasant near the fire. 

“Anyway,” she resumed after picking up her own cup and taking a sip, “I managed to clear enough of a hole that I was able to crawl under, and there I was. That outer part is rather nice. Spent a bit of time out there, studying and such. Lots to learn. I love that. But Redbeard wasn’t out there, and I wanted to be where the dog was. Had to be behind this door, that was the only other possibility. So I poked around a bit more. Funny, I don’t think anyone else has ever gotten through at all. Seems to me that a lot of people would have at least tried. At any rate, Redbeard kept barking and scratching at the door, so I came over and was trying to find a way in, when, through a spot at the bottom of the door that wasn’t quite flush, a little key pushed through.”

“Redbeard pushed the key under the door?”

“Apparently, yes.” She took another sip of tea. 

Sherlock looked at his dog. “Why would you do that?”

The dog whined and cocked his head to the side. 

“I think he was lonely. It’s awfully lonely down here.”

“Why would you want to come down here? And how did you know his name?”

She smiled. It was a warm, pretty smile. “Curiosity, at first. Then I found I rather liked the place. Reminded me of my own. Thought I’d stick around for a bit. As to his name, I had two clues. First, the red,” she tapped her left shoulder and pointed at him. Sherlock looked down to his own shoulder, where the lapel of his dark coat was, with a buttonhole lined with bright red thread. 

“Thought that was a bit odd, that. I figured it might have meant something, and when I saw his red coat, I was quite sure. I thought you could have named him Red, but that seemed a bit too…simple…for you. Then I remembered how Mycroft had said once that you had wanted to become a pirate when you were quite young. And since you never do anything half-heartedly, I thought perhaps that may have influenced your choice of names. Hence, Redbeard. He answered to it, so here we are.”

Redbeard barked again, and actually went over and nuzzled her. Sherlock just watched him, his mind racing. Yes, Redbeard had always been friendly. But he was  his dog, and this was  his  mind palace. He realised he was rather put out about the infiltration.

“Get out.”

She looked a little surprised. “I beg your pardon?”

“This is my place. My sanctuary. No one but Redbeard can be here. Not John, not you, not anyone. Get out.”

She blinked repeatedly, then set her teacup down with resignation. “Very well. I’ve no wish to be where I’m not wanted. I’ll just go, then.”

She stood and brushed herself off. Redbeard went to her side, whining. 

Sherlock beckoned to his dog. “It’s all right, Redbeard. Come here, boy.”

Redbeard just barked at him. Sherlock was agog. Why would Redbeard choose her over him? Why now?

Emma rubbed the dog’s head again. “Sorry, boy, I’ve got to go. It’s been nice getting to know you.”

Redbeard whined again, but she walked to the door, exited, and shut the door behind her.

Redbeard continued whining at the door. It was quite grating, for more reasons than the noise. 

“Redbeard, do please stop. She shouldn’t have been here. You know that. It’s just supposed to be you and me here. No outsiders. You know that. It’s not safe.”

The dog walked over to where Sherlock could see him, but not close enough for him to touch. Just stared.

“Why do you like her, anyway? You’re  my  dog.”

The setter barked, then lay down and put his head on his paws, whining again. Sherlock rolled his head in an exasperated expression. “All right, I suppose she’s tolerable enough. Somewhat clever. The way she got in here was clever, too, I suppose, though she did have a bit of help of the four-legged variety. But no one else is allowed in here. No one.”

He sat back in the chair and looked around the room. It  had been quite a while since he had been down here, but he was starting to remember now. Looked a bit nicer than he recalled. A bit more tidy. A few more little knickknacks he didn’t recall. And where had the other chair come from? The fire was a marked improvement. He turned to it, wondering where she had found the wood. Already it seemed to be dying down a little. 

Sherlock sat in silence for a few minutes more. The room was growing colder.

“Perhaps I should ask her where she found the wood.”

Redbeard lifted his head.

Sherlock stood. “Stay here, boy.” He left the room, making sure to leave the door ajar behind him. He still didn’t know where the key was. 

John wasn’t sitting in the chair anymore. He was standing now, glowering at him. 

“What have you done?”

“No one else is allowed to go in there, John. You of  all people should know that. But I have a question for her. Did she already leave?”

John got right in his face. “Of course she’s left. Why would she stay when you drove her out like that? What kind of idiot are you?”

Sherlock was rather taken aback. “What do you mean,  idiot? Mycroft is right. Having people in there is not an advantage. I don’t need or want anyone to be in there.”

“Yes, you do, Sherlock. You both need  and want it, even though you don’t see it. Or at least you won’t admit it. And did you not even notice the improvements she made in there?”

“How did you—”

“I’ve been your best friend for quite a while, Sherlock. And even though Mycroft guards the door, I’m the one who has been inside. Not that room, no, but further than anyone else. So who are you going to listen to? Your best friend, or your rubbish big brother?”

Sherlock blinked. He hadn’t expected this. 

“She’s gone, Sherlock.”

He looked at John again. “You already said that.”

“Said what? I didn’t say anything.”

Sherlock!

There was a rushing, all of his senses coming to him again in a flood, and just like that, the mind palace was gone. He opened his eyes. John was looking closely at him and they were apparently in an ambulance. More memories came in a flash. A gunman. Emma stepping in front of him. The blood blossoming from her neck….

“Where is she? What happened?”

He tried to sit up, but John pushed him back down. There was a pain in his right breast that hadn’t been there before. 

“She’s gone, Sherlock,” John whispered.

Sherlock tried harder to get up, but apparently John was stronger than he was at this point. “No, I’ve got to talk to her—”

“You can’t, Sherlock. She’s gone.” 

Sherlock stopped fighting to sit up and peered at him. “Why are you whispering?”

John glanced around and got closer. “Because I don’t want others to hear about her. It will sound crazy. You’re going to think I’m crazy, too.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I don’t know how much you remember. Stiles Houghton attacked us from a side street. Didn’t give us much time before he pulled a gun and shot. Emma had stepped in front of you. Took the bullet. Must have slowed it down considerably, maybe even deflected it a little, because even though it still hit you, you didn’t receive a lethal wound. She saved your life.”

Hearing the words caused a cold, hard lump, like a huge chunk of ice, to form just behind his sternum. 

He had felt guilt a few times. Disappointment in himself far more often. But this was different, and he wasn’t sure why. But John’s face wasn’t just sad. It also showed confusion and worry. Sadness was understandable, and worry. But…if she were truly dead, what could be confusing? And there was no mistaking John’s confused face. He had seen it far too many times.

“Why are you confused?” There was a panic rising inside him that was as uncomfortable as it was unfamiliar. He pushed aside the guesses at possible ‘whys’ by trying to get up again. Unsuccessfully.

“Sherlock, you need to calm down. There is no other ambulance. I didn’t even get a chance to examine her injury. I turned when I saw you fall, then when I turned back to her, she was gone. Totally and completely  gone. Vanished. Her clothing, everything. Not even any blood on the pavement.”

Sherlock’s body became still as marble.  I must still be in my mind palace. He needed to wake up.  Wake up wake up wake up.  But John continued.

“Houghton went completely mad. Started screaming like a banshee. I think he was still screaming and blubbering when the police took him away. Once I was sure you were going to survive, I rang the police and they were there in only a couple of minutes. I didn’t know what to tell them about Emma. There wasn’t even any evidence that she had been there, so I decided not to tell them anything. I didn’t want to look as mad as Stiles.” 

His mind was racing, frantically trying to find a logical explanation, or at least wake up. He had to wake up. “Did you contact Colin? He might know something.”

“Why would he know anything? How could anyone know something like that?” Then John sighed. “But I knew I had to tell him. So when things calmed down a bit, I rang him up. I told him what had happened, and he was pretty upset. Of course. Swore and asked where we were, then just rang off. I thought he was going to show up eventually, but he never did. When the ambulance was leaving, I tried him again, but his phone goes straight to voice mail. He’s undoubtedly very angry.”

Sherlock was desperately trying to assess everything: every memory, every sensation, as he tried to find a logical explanation, but still he could find none. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, Sherlock. It doesn’t make any sense. We both know she existed. There couldn’t have been anything like that Baskerville gas in that side street. No mass hallucination. But now, she just…doesn’t seem to exist anymore.”

“This is impossible. I’m still in my mind palace. I have to be. I need to wake up.” He tried to sit up again. Again, John kept him from rising.

“It’s not your mind palace, Sherlock. You are conscious, and as far as I know, you’re not high. I’m sorry. You seemed to be getting on with her at the end. I know that doesn’t happen often.”

The energy left Sherlock’s body and he let himself sink into the gurney. He looked away.

“I just needed to ask her one more thing.”

  



	22. Chapter 22 (Emma POV)

In case no one has ever mentioned it, dying is not something I recommend. I suppose I was lucky this time that death came so quickly that I hardly felt any pain at all. Then there was a rush of memories, everything that has meant anything to me not just appearing before me, but feeling like I was rushing through the experiences again at breakneck speed. A flood that felt like my body coming together, then sensation began to return. 

That time, the most prominent sensation was bitter cold. Even before my head broke through the surface of the water and I was gasping for breath, I was shivering. It was so intense that I could barely swim to shore, but somehow I managed. Once again on firm footing, I quickly assessed my location and stumbled my way to the nearest shrubbery, under which I huddled for what little warmth I could gather.

I didn’t know exactly where I was, as I had never died in Edinburgh before and I wasn’t as familiar with their bodies of water. It was a river, of that I was sure, and probably somewhat distant from the restaurant because this area seemed less occupied. Perhaps the River Leith? I knew we hadn’t travelled far from the port, and the port was at the mouth of the River Leith. It didn’t matter. Eventually I would have to either leave for better shelter or someone would find me, and I would find out where I was. But right then the emotional impact of what had just happened was hitting me like a mortar shell, and I could deal with nothing else.

So quickly. Everything had happened so quickly. I wasn’t even sure if my sacrifice had been effective, or if Stiles had simply gone on shooting and killed both Sherlock and John. I could not bear the thought of them dying, but no matter what happened, I was now dead to them, and that was hitting me almost as hard. 

That last hour had been the most pleasant and comfortable hour that I could remember for at least a hundred years. Possibly ever. Like the painful, glorious satisfaction after a good workout or creating something marvellous, because you had put forth great effort and had done good in the world. And it had been made all the more pleasant because I had spent so many selfish years giving and doing nothing, that I had forgotten what that feeling was like.

But even more than this, I felt I had made friends. Brave, witty, intelligent friends. I had forgotten what that felt like as well. And Sherlock….

The tightness in my throat and chest gave way to great, wracking sobs. Even those didn’t feel like enough to express my grief; I felt I needed to scream my lamentations to the infinite sky. But I did not dare, so the tight pain in my throat and chest returned as I sobbed as quietly as I could, huddling naked on the shore of an unknown river. 

I have no idea how long I sat there. What time sense I usually had, had been obliterated by my wretchedness. But I was losing the energy to cry when I heard Colin loudly whispering my name. I swallowed the last of my tears—I didn’t want Colin to see me so distraught—and answered his whisper. 

“Oh, thank God,” he said as he ran to me and held open a large towel that I recognised from our flat.

“Bless you, Colin!” I was still shivering as I wrapped myself completely in the over-sized towel. Then I looked at him. He was bruised and limping. He looked even worse than I had before I died. “Oh Colin, what happened to you! Was there an accident?”

He shook his head, offering the small smile people give when they don’t want to discuss something. “Don’t worry about me, you’re the one who just died. I’m sorry it took me so long to find you,” he said as he took out another, smaller towel and began rubbing down my hair, which was now long, cold, and heavy with water. “I had to guess where you came up from where John told me you had been shot—”

I turned on him in shock. “He’s okay? What did you tell him? What happened?”

“It’s fine, calm down. He was obviously okay. I’m sorry I didn’t get more information than that, but I was rather upset. Once he told me you had been shot and then disappeared, I just found out where and rang off. Turned my phone off after that. I knew you wouldn’t want me to tell them anything.”

I imagine there would have been more distress that Colin would have picked up on if Sherlock had been killed, so I now had hope that my sacrifice had not been in vain. There was still a grief like someone had torn the organs from my chest, but I no longer needed to worry about their physical safety, at least.

I was still shivering, but there was a certain amount of comfort that came from having Colin there, and a towel. 

“Did you bring clothes?”

“Of course I brought clothes. It’s been drilled into my family for generations what to do when this sort of thing happens.” He smiled at me when he said it, but I could only manage the weakest of half-smiles in return, and I could no longer maintain even that after mere moments. His smile faded to sorrow and sympathy almost immediately. He handed me a bundle of clothing.

“I’m really sorry, Emma. I know this whole thing has been incredibly hard for you, and now to die right at the end, that…I can’t even imagine. I’m so sorry I encouraged you to join the investigation.”

I shook my head as I removed undergarments from the bundle and handed the rest of the clothing back to Colin for him to hold while I dressed. Even though he had seen me naked only moments before, he closed his eyes when I removed the towel. 

“It’s okay, Colin. Overall, I think it was a good thing.” I was glad his eyes were closed, because for a moment I struggled to stop my bottom lip from trembling. “I hope I was helpful. They said I was fine. And I was able to save their lives there at the end, I think, so that was good. It was even fun, up until the dying part. So not a complete waste.”

His face scrunched, though his eyes stayed closed. “Emma, you saw a murder, got kidnapped, were battered and bruised, held hostage, participated in killing another murderer and caught the ringleader. And now you’re trying to tell me it was ‘fun, up until the dying part?’”

I could only manage a small, sad smile and a very soft voice. “Yeah, it was. I felt alive for the first time in a very long time.” 

I pulled on the shirt he had brought. “I’m dressed now; you can open your eyes.”

He opened his eyes and immediately winced. “I forgot to bring you shoes.”

I didn’t even care. “That’s fine. I just want to go home.”

We didn’t talk on the way back to the car. Without shoes, I had to be careful making my way in the dark. But I don’t think either of us really  wanted to talk. 

When we had settled into the car and it was finally warming, I could no longer stay silent. 

“Who did you get in a row with, Colin?”

He didn’t answer, just looked uncomfortable.

“Neither of us have had a good day today, Colin, so please, just tell me. You haven’t been in a row since grammar school, so something serious happened. That limp does not look minor, either.”

His face changed from uncomfortable to pained, even sorrowful. I hated to see him like that, but I knew now even more that I needed to have the information he was so reluctant to give.

He swallowed heavily and began. “When the doctor and I were at Parliament and they found that the servers had been hacked, I got a glimpse at some of the trojan’s path, so I started to get a feel for how it might have been coded. It was uncomfortably familiar. I blew it off, but then when I was helping at Scotland Yard yesterday morning, I saw enough of the actual trojan code to know for sure: it was mine. It was my code. I had written it about a month ago for Bill’s company—or that’s who I thought I was writing it for—for some security testing he said they were going to be doing.”

“So it wasn’t for Bill’s company.”

Colin shook his head. “They didn’t even know anything about it. So I went to confront him about it. Remember how I told you he was sick on Thursday? He wasn’t. He had skipped town after setting everything up, because that was the day the trojans were set to trigger. But he had other people at his flat, and when I came ‘round looking for him, we got into a row. I didn’t come out of it so well.”

I hadn’t seen him so upset with himself since he had let himself be talked into pantsing another boy when he was twelve. 

“He lied to you, Colin. That is not your fault.”

He pounded the steering wheel with his right palm. “I should have seen it, Emma! He’d only been hanging with us the last year and the last six months his behaviour had been all dodgy. I should have verified the job. I should have seen it.” He grimaced, so angry with himself that I was very worried. 

“I was going to make it right. I was doing more work from home to to catch the bastard and then I was going to take my punishment. But then you got taken, and I had to race up here to make sure you were okay. Because it wasn’t just my duty anymore. It was my fault.”

I put my hand on his arm. “Colin, you must  never believe that. The only reason he was able to take advantage of you was because you are a good person. When you don’t expect that kind of evil from people, it’s harder to see. And I  need you to be that good person. That person who believes the best in people. Who believes the best in me. That same person who, when he was only a teen, was able to get me out of the flat for the first time in fifty years. Because you saw how I was dying in there, by my own hand, but you still believed that I could recover and live again. And, despite the family legends, you believed and you pushed until you got me out. So don’t you  dare  blame yourself for what Bill did.”

He said nothing, but he still held his brow as tightly as a bow in battle. 

“Colin, thank you. Thank you for encouraging me to get out. Thank you for keeping me fit despite my protestations, because that was invaluable when I was escaping my kidnappers. Thank you for being good and believing in me. I am not, nor could I ever be, ashamed of you for what happened. I am more proud of you than I could ever express, for your integrity and strength and everything that you are. I don’t say it enough. It’s hard for me because it’s hard for me to watch you get old and…well, you know. But you are my darling boy.”

Finally, a small smile graced his face. “I’m thirty-eight, Emma.”

“Shh,” I said, patting his hand. “Don’t ruin it.”

Colin seemed to cheer up a bit after that, which I was glad of. But he was exhausted, and needed stimulation to stay awake, so I had to keep up a conversation I most heartily wished to bow out of. It would have been nice at this point if I could drive, since coming back after dying had me feeling physically refreshed like I had just had a good night’s rest and a full pot of tea. But I couldn’t, so I had to keep talking. 

Colin asked a number of questions about the last twenty-four hours, all of which I either gave brief answers to or managed to avoid answering at all. I kept trying to turn the conversation to inconsequential matters such as news about the royals or recent shows from the telly, but as much as I wanted to avoid talking of anything serious, Colin seemed determined to talk of nothing but weightier matters. So I had to address something serious, but not about me.

“Colin, I have something to confess.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And it is very important.” I was frantically trying to think of how to approach the topic I was attempting to address.

“OK, I’m listening.”

“I’ve found a lover. Online. From Spain. And he’s coming to live with me, so I am going to need you to move out.”

I have never seen Colin laugh so hard. Ever. “You have never been a good liar, Emma, but that was absolutely the worst attempt at a falsehood I have ever seen you make!”

I pouted. “I don’t know how to say what I want to say!”

“I’m not some terrifying stranger, Emma. Just tell me.”

I took a deep breath. I was afraid that he would think my motivations were really negative feelings towards him, but I also knew that if I protested or denied too much, it would only make it worse. So I just had to tell him plainly.

“I’ve been holding you back for too long, Colin. You are brilliant, and brave, and good. And so very talented with computers. It is shameful for me to keep you to myself in my flat, fetching my groceries and trying in vain to make me coordinated.”

He laughed, but it was short and without mirth. “It’s fine, Emma. My side jobs—which I am going to do a far better job of vetting from now on—keep me engaged.”

“It’s not just that. You can do so much more good in the world if you were not so restricted by a mad old woman.”

“How could I leave you, Emma? Yes, you get out a little more, but there are so many other things out in London that you have no experience with!”

I laughed and hoped it sounded more sincere than the story of my Spanish lover, though it wasn’t. “I would hope that this recent adventure would prove I can manage at least a little!”

His face became pensive. “Is that why you agreed to do it?”

“In part, yes.”

“You found out about that job offer, didn’t you?”

“What? No!”

“You really are the worst liar ever.”

I pouted and folded my arms across my chest again. “That’s because everyone just makes fun of me when I practise.”

“Even if I took that job, I wouldn’t need to leave you. The job is based in London. I could still—”

I shook my head. “Your great faithfulness would still try to put me first, and I’m afraid you would begin to resent me. Besides, I want you to have a  full life. Not just a career. A girlfriend, a wife, a family. Everything good.”

I could see his eyes glistening in the dashboard lights. “But you don’t have any of those things, Emma.”

I tried to keep it light. “I don’t  want a girlfriend.”

He almost laughed, but knew the truth too well to fully succumb to my teasing. “You know what I meant. How could I leave you so alone?”

I smiled, though I knew it was a little sad. I sat back in my seat, my eyes focused outside, on the golden light from the rising sun setting the countryside aglow. “I had forgotten what the outside world was like. All the marvels of it. All the joys. All the sensations. Yes, interacting with people is still terrifying. But perhaps now is a good time to start over. Emma Bedingfield is dead. I can leave you the flat. Perhaps get a small cottage in the countryside, ease myself into life again, perhaps with a little less drama than this weekend. And you could visit whenever you wish.”

“Oh, so you seek to be the next Miss Marple?”

“What? No, of course not. Why would you say that?”

“Because you were good at investigating. I didn’t need to hear all the details to know that. And I think you enjoyed it.”

“Pshaw. It was an intense dunking into life, that is all. And while I may have lucked into a few good deductions, I am far from expert.”

I couldn’t make eye contact with him, though. I kept my focus either out the window or on my hands in my lap. There was a long pause.

“You should tell them.”

I shook my head and cleared my throat, focusing very intently on my hands. “Oh, no. That can never happen. Sherlock is a man of science. My body disappearing would have been bad enough. I really don’t wish to make him go completely mad by reappearing.”

I looked back out the windshield, sighing softly. I could tell Colin was watching me and thinking about it a little too hard. Wishing to prevent his train of thought from going down paths I would not wish to answer questions about, I spoke again. “Even if he did not go mad, I would no longer be a person. No longer even human. I am a freak. An anomaly. I would become a specimen in a lab, to be endlessly experimented upon. A man fixated on murders and the solving of them, suddenly having access to a person who could not stay dead? I shudder to think of what he would try to put me through.”

Colin turned his attention back to the road. I was relieved that I had convinced him. However, I had not been able to fully convince myself. Part of me refused to believe that Sherlock would really be so cruel as to do those things surreptitiously to me. Not after he promised no more drugging or incapacitation. But there were also parts of me that wanted to know the results of such experiments. The curious part that loved learning in all forms—but also the part that longed to be able to die and stop this cycle of endless goodbyes.

“I will meet with people about the job offer. See if it is a good fit. We can make decisions from there. No need to rush into anything.”

I smiled. I had been persuasive. Victorious. Colin would be able to move on with his life. 

The hollowness within me expanded. Colin turned on the radio to help keep him awake, and I was sad to notice that even the music seemed cold and empty.

It was nearly two in the afternoon when we arrived at home, completely spent, but with that relief that always comes when you arrive at home after a long trip. Had I really left here just over a day ago? I stepped out of the car onto the pavement, engrossed by the feel of the rough cement on my bare feet. I stepped forward slowly, in such a way as to make sure I experienced every crack, every bit of moss between the slabs, even the occasional loose stone. I looked at my small, pale feet on the ground. I had never felt this ground with my feet, though I had lived here, in this same building, for the last eighty years. 

“What are you doing?”

I had been so utterly lost in thought and new sensations that Colin’s words startled and made me jump. He was looking at me oddly.

“I just…I’ve never felt this pavement before.”

He laughed. “It’s pretty much the same everywhere in the city, Emma. Nothing remarkable about it.”

I returned a smile, but it also made me sad. Everything was remarkable. Had a history. Meant something. Did no one else see that?

Well, one person did.

And I could never talk to him again.

Colin retrieved his bag from the back seat, then locked up the car and began walking toward the building.

“Come on, Emma, it’ll be good to sleep in our own beds again. I would like to call DI Lestrade before I crash, though.”

“To tell him about Bill?”

“Yes, and to see if there is anything else that needs to be done. I may have some culpability yet.”

I waited until we were in the lift before I added, “You’ll need to make sure he believes that you know I am dead and you are properly distraught. I am sure John and Sherlock have somehow informed him of my demise, and John probably told him that he told you. You must maintain that belief.”

“If you’re sure that’s what I should do.”

“I’m sure.”


	23. Chapter 23 (John Watson POV)

The bullet in Sherlock’s chest was shallow enough that they just used a local anaesthetic to remove it, and he protested even that. It was just lodged against a rib, too weak from passing through Emma to even chip bone, let alone penetrate. 

Sherlock was belligerent with the paramedics, nurses, doctors, everyone. I followed in his wake, apologising, but I did little to stop him. We were both upset and bewildered by what had happened, but I think it hit him more profoundly than it had hit me. 

Oh, I felt guilt. I felt a massive amount of guilt. If it hadn’t been for the head wound, I might have been better prepared to deal with Stiles in time to prevent what had happened. And Sherlock was always angry with himself when he felt he had missed some clue, even if the clue had never actually existed. 

The shock and anger, however, paled next to the loss. We had known Emma for less than three days. But she had definitely made an impression. I liked her, of course. I found her interesting and pleasant. But I think she had made an even greater impact on Sherlock. People who could tolerate him were rare. People who actually liked him rarer still. Once you combined that with people intelligent enough to be interesting to him, you were looking at a near impossibility. Then along comes this pretty little lady who met all three criteria, and within three days she was dead. 

It had taken years, but I had come to know that Sherlock’s abrasive personality was more a product of self-preservation than genuine dislike of others. His inability to properly empathise with other people, to have consideration with how different actions would make them feel, I felt was real. But it had so profoundly hindered his ability to make friends, or be remotely likable, that I think he had decided long ago that he would just stop caring so that people couldn’t hurt him anymore. But no one can just turn that off once it already exists in you. Not even Sherlock Holmes.

After he was released from hospital—which didn’t take long, as everyone there wished to get rid of him as soon as possible—we immediately took a cab back to the crime scene. It was almost ten by then, and it had been cleared up so completely that you could hardly tell a crime had happened there just a few hours before. Because the police didn’t know about Emma even having been there, it was not considered a murder scene and therefore not worth further investigation. 

Sherlock, of course, didn’t trust what anyone else had seen. He insisted there had to be something, some evidence, of what had happened to Emma, and he was determined to find it.

He was wrong.

We spent over an hour there—mostly just him, actually, because he snapped at me if I got close, saying I would disturb something—and found nothing. Not a hair, not a drop of blood. No signs that someone had rapidly come in and dragged her away, no possible holes to fall into, no way she could have crawled off. After an hour, he was cross, confused, and despondent, manifested by a surly, quiet, introspection that I dared not disturb. 

After he had stopped searching, he just stood there, staring at the back of the alley. He put his hands together in front of his face twice, but neither time lasted for more than a second before he shook his head and dropped his hands again. Even his mind palace apparently had nothing. After a number of minutes of silence, I asked him if I should call a cab. For a minute I wasn’t sure he had heard me, but he finally nodded. 

The ride back to the hotel was deathly quiet. Through the lobby, up the lift, down the hall, surly silence. When we were in front of Emma’s room, I paused. I didn’t have a key to her room, and I didn’t think Sherlock did, either. But it didn’t seem right to just leave her things there, to be rifled through or tossed by housekeeping. 

Sherlock saw me pause and suddenly was alert with feverish vigour again. He pulled out his lock picks and had the door open in moments, exploding into the room and turning on all the lights in an instant. 

The room, I think, was just how she had left it. One bag was open on the bed, the other on the floor by the bureau. There was a laptop on the desk, closed. Sherlock went through everything, even pulling her tattered silk dress from the bin by the desk. When he picked up her hairbrush from the bureau, he stared at the wavy auburn hair still tangled in the bristles for long moments before holding it out to me with a trembling hand. 

“She existed, John. See here? She existed.”

He rubbed his hand over his face and, for a moment, I thought he was going to snap. Such a precisely tuned machine could not function with even a mote of grit in the mechanism. And something had got in. 

The frenzy returned, and he sat at the desk and opened her laptop. After ten minutes, he still could not guess her password, so he snapped at me to call Colin and ask him what her password was. I immediately tried, but it went straight to voice mail again. By now, Sherlock was absolutely frantic.

“Did he tell you what hotel he was staying at? Tell me!”

I told Sherlock the two Colin had mentioned when I had called him from the Duncanson’s. Before the words were out of my mouth, Sherlock had his phone out, calling the first one. That happened to be the one Colin had checked into—but they said he had checked back out less than an hour after he had checked in. If Sherlock could have slammed the receiver down on a mobile phone, he would have. 

Now he had nothing left to try. There was one more frenetic moment while he tried to think of something else, but then it was like someone cut the rubber band, and the energy left as quickly as it had come. He closed the laptop and gathered it up, along with all of her other things. It had been difficult to watch him before. Now, as he didn’t ask me to hold or carry a single thing, I realised it was because he  needed to hold them himself. I shattered.

There had been one other. Brilliant, beautiful, very attracted to him Irene Adler. When we thought she had died, Sherlock did not do well. Didn’t eat for days, played his violin incessantly. We had to keep a vigilant eye on him to make sure he did no harm to himself. But she had been manipulative, deceitful, selfish, and overall not a nice person, using him to discover and disrupt top secret state plans. He despised her at the end. Emma, on the other hand, had seemed good and open to the end. And we had  seen her die, so there could be no doubt. I would need to text Mycroft as soon as possible. 

Sherlock retreated to his room and closed the door behind him. I went to mine, immediately texted Mycroft of the danger, then packed up my things as quickly as I could. While Sherlock was not familiar with the drug dealers in Edinburgh, I knew it would only take him minutes to find at least one. I needed to get him back to Baker Street where there were more people who could keep an eye on him. 

It wasn’t difficult to get him packed and to the train. His responses were monosyllabic and, while he was still surly, the heat seemed to have left him. The train ride back was long and silent as well, with him sitting with his hands together in front of his face most of the time, insensible to distractions. I was sure he was trying, once again, to figure out answers to what had happened, and I wished we had a body to offer the closure he needed.

A cab ride to Baker Street, up the stairs, and once he dropped all of his belongings—and Emma’s—onto the sitting room floor, he immediately retrieved his violin and began to play. Not a word of any kind. I went down to Mrs Hudson.

“I need you to keep an eye on him.”

“Oh dear, what’s happened?”

“Another woman.”

She looked a little confused. “What? How could that happen?”

“I’m as shocked as anyone, but the point is, she’s dead—”

“That’s what we thought last time, wasn’t it? People keep pretending to be dead around here when they’re really not.”

I glared at her. “No, we  saw her die this time, it was right in front of us. She saved his life. So it’s a danger night, and I need you to keep an eye on him.”

“Where are you going to be?”

“I have to visit Scotland Yard. I need to see if there is any more information.”

It was a relief getting away from Sherlock. OK, it’s  often a relief getting away from Sherlock, but usually because he was making  me upset, not because he had been upset. I knew Mrs Hudson wasn’t a perfect watchdog, but she was a good first level with Mycroft as backup. Because, even though I hadn’t seen anyone at the flat, I knew Baker Street was now being watched closely. 

I hadn’t tried to reach Colin in hours, but I wasn’t sure there could be much information gained if I did. My only hope at this point was that the forensics team at the scene had found something unusual, and that Greg had access to it. I hadn’t told him yet about Emma, and I doubted Sherlock had, either. I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.

But when I arrived at Lestrade’s division floor, my gut clenched. Across the room, talking to Greg Lestrade, was Colin Gidney. This must have been why he checked out of the hotel so quickly: to come down and confront Lestrade directly. Colin looked haggard and unhappy, and Greg was solemn. I could only imagine how livid Colin must have been about Emma, and Greg would have been the official entity to catch the brunt of it, so things were going to hit the fan for all of us, very soon. The only question was why Lestrade wasn’t already visibly livid.

After a pause to steel myself, I walked over to join them. 

As I drew closer, I heard the tail end of Greg’s comments. “…consequences, but I think we should be able to avoid most of ‘em.”

Colin just nodded in response, and then it got quiet as they both turned toward me. I cleared my throat and looked directly at Colin. “I am very, very sorry. We failed you, and I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for that.”

But I could see Greg’s reaction from the corner of my eye and it was not at all what I had expected. It was very confused. 

“What? How did you fail him? The killers have been caught, and with enough evidence to not need the witnesses, just as Sherlock promised. Though he did get himself shot in the process, I understand that he’s going to be fine, so we’re all good. I just wish I could have got pictures.”

Rather thrown off, I had to pause and blink a few times before saying anything to Colin.

“You didn’t tell him.”

Colin opened his mouth as if to say something, then just averted his eyes and shook his head. 

“Tell me what? Dammit, John, you know I hate it when you two keep important information from me. What happened?”

I cleared my throat again and turned to face Greg. Even Colin was looking a bit sheepish, which wasn’t the reaction I would have expected. I had put my foot in my own mouth, and now I didn’t want to answer, but I had to.

“Emma was killed by Stiles Houghton up in Edinburgh. That’s why the bullet didn’t kill Sherlock. She slowed it down.”

Lestrade’s eyes became as large as tea saucers. “WHAT?! Why the hell wasn’t that in the police report? And why the hell hasn’t anyone told me about this before now? In my office, both of you, NOW.”

Seems I had put myself in bigger trouble than I had previously thought I was in. 

Colin and I sat in desks across from Lestrade’s, and Greg lit into me the second the door had shut. 

“What the hell, John? And why isn’t Sherlock here to face me himself? Is he really that indifferent?”

“Quite the opposite, actually.”

Both Greg and Colin looked at me with shock and more than a little disbelief. I didn’t wish to reveal all of Sherlock’s secrets, so I instead related what had happened.

“It was about five thirty this morning. We had just had breakfast and I was still reeling from the effects of a concussion. That’s no excuse for my failure to protect her, but it may have been a factor. As we were leaving to catch a cab, Stiles confronted us from an alleyway. He blamed us for bringing Stewart Burwick to the port where Edina had planned, and succeeded, to kill him. Emma stepped in front of us and took the bullet meant for Sherlock, though it hit him after it passed through her. She saved his life.”

Greg, who had been standing behind his desk, now sat down hard. “Oh God.”

Colin was silent at this point, staring blankly at the edge of Lestrade’s desk. 

Greg recovered enough to address me again. “And there was nothing you could do, I suppose. But why was Stiles screaming like a madman when the police arrived? And why wasn’t this mentioned in the report?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Of course I was reluctant to respond. But there was no getting around it now. 

“I turned to Sherlock first. The bullet had gone through Emma’s neck, so I was quite sure there was nothing I could do about her. But it only took me a moment to assess that Sherlock would be fine, and I turned back to Emma. Or thought I did. She was gone, completely vanished, and Stiles was screaming. I have no idea what happened to her, but there was no trace, not even a spot of blood on the pavement. Stiles must have seen whatever happened, though. I think that’s why he was screaming.”

Lestrade’s face became a living question mark. “What?”

I put my hands in front of me. “I don’t understand it myself. And the weirdest thing is, Sherlock doesn’t seem to either. He was frantic after he was released from hospital, trying to find some clue at the scene or among her things. But he couldn’t find anything, and he’s been quite despondent ever since.”

I glanced at Colin, which I had been reticent to do since I began telling what had happened. But Colin wasn’t looking at me with anger or deep grief like I had expected. His look was sad, yes, but more filled with sympathy than anything. 

Lestrade leaned forward and addressed Colin with sombre apologies. “I am so sorry this happened, Mr Gidney. I know you must be extremely upset, especially since this wouldn’t have happened if I had followed the rules and not allowed her to accompany the investigation in the first place.”

He shot me a quick glare with the last words, though I knew they were really intended for Sherlock. But then Colin surprised us both by shaking his head. 

“No need to apologise, Inspector. I know it was her choice, as did she. The case was pretty much wrapped up at the time—Dr Watson here had called to inform me of that about an hour previous—so I hold none of you, certainly not Dr Watson or Mr Holmes, accountable, and bear no ill will. I’m sure if it had been foreseen, it would have been prevented.”

Lestrade blinked, a weak smile of relief washing over his face. “Thank you, Mr Gidney, that is very gracious of you. She had no other family?”

Colin shook his head again. “None that I know of.”

I was puzzled. If Colin was not angry about Emma’s death, why had he raced back to London? But I didn’t have time to ponder it further before Greg addressed me again.

“John, when you say Sherlock had been the ‘opposite of indifferent,’ what exactly did you mean?”

Internally, I groaned. Lestrade was not as stupid as Sherlock generally treated him. But I still didn’t wish to voice my complete suspicions. “He and Emma had seemed to be getting on there towards the end. You know that doesn’t happen often. So I think it might have upset him that she died.”

“What was he doing when you left him to come here?”

“Playing the violin.”

“Sad stuff?”

I paused. “Yes.”

Greg sat back in his chair again. “Oh God. This is going to be like that Woman again, isn’t it.”

I cocked my head. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”

“I’m not stupid, you know. Mrs Hudson and Molly told me. And it was hard not to notice how sulky he was for weeks after that.”

Colin was staring at me, but instead of sympathy, his eyes had narrowed, as if he were studying me and what I had said with intensity. Yet he said nothing. 

Lestrade rubbed his hands down his face. “Well, this is unpleasant, and it may just get worse.” He looked directly at me. “If Sherlock has anything he needs to tell me, he knows how to reach me. Otherwise I’m going to be avoiding him until this blows over.” 

He then turned to Colin. “I had already minimised Emma’s and your importance in the case files, saying you couldn’t identify anyone from MacIntosh’s murder scene so you would be useless at trial. And since Stiles is already up for conspiracy to commit murder and attempted murder, I’m afraid there’s not much more we can do without a body, so I’m not going to report this. Unless you ask me to.”

Colin immediately shook his head. “I know she would prefer it this way.”

Greg shooed us out of his office, though I could see him getting a bottle of amber liquid from his bottom desk drawer as we left. 

We weren’t ten feet from the office door before Colin turned to me. “I have questions.”

“So do I. Why did you come down here if you weren’t going to get upset over Emma’s murder?”

The wince was slight, and harder to discern in his exhausted face, but I saw it. “Some of my code had been…misappropriated and used to disable the CCTVs the night of MacIntosh’s murder and at Westminster. I found out who took it, so I let the Detective Inspector know so he could pursue the matter.”

I nodded. “Oh right, Sherlock had told me that was probably why you got battered. Sorry about that.”

Colin gave me a small, somewhat surprised smile. “He is a clever one, isn’t he? But I need to know…what happened up there in Edinburgh?”

“How do you mean? I think you’ve heard most of what happened concerning the case, though I suppose I could give you a few more details.”

He shook his head. “No, I mean personally. You said Sherlock was the ‘opposite of indifferent,’ and then DI Lestrade referred to that ‘Woman.’” I would like—no, I  need to know what happened.”

Had Colin had a fancy for his employer? If he had, what did it matter now that she was dead? Yet…he had shown such unusual reactions to everything that had been said today. I had a feeling he knew much more than he had said so far, and my best angle at finding out more was to be more open myself.

“I would prefer not to talk about it here,” I answered, “Let’s take the lift down.”

Once we were in the lift, I turned to him. “Sherlock will deny it until the sun burns out, partially because I don’t think he even knows how to recognise those sorts of things, but I think he liked her. They sort of…understood each other. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I’ve seen a few people able to challenge him intellectually, and a few others fond of him, and still a few others with some of the same interests and goals. But never, and I mean  never, have I seen anyone who met all three criteria.”

Colin crossed his arms in front of him and stared straight ahead, his mind lost in thought. After a few long moments, he asked, “And you said he’s upset now?”

“Yes, which is always nerve-wracking for everyone around him. On his best days, he’s unpredictable. On the rare occasions when something truly upsets him…it can be scary.”

Colin rubbed his fingers, hard, into his forehead. Then he turned to me with a decisive intensity. 

“John, I need you to meet me tomorrow morning. Someplace we won’t likely be seen by anyone who knows you.”

Whatever he knew, it was apparently very secretive. “Where do you suggest?”

“Do you remember where that burger place I took you Friday is?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Can you meet me there, tomorrow morning? Nine a.m.?”

“Yes, of course.”

Colin took a deep breath. “Please, keep your mind open when I meet you tomorrow. You’ll think I’m insane, but I’m not. I’ll bring proof.”

The lift stopped at the ground floor. Colin turned to me and shook my hand vigorously. “Thank you, John Watson, for enlightening me. I know what I need to do now.” 

And with that, he strode off quickly, leaving me wondering what I was going to hear in the morning.

  


That night was hard. Mrs Hudson and I were taking shifts watching Sherlock, who wasn’t talking to anyone. Or eating. Or really sleeping. I was able to nap a bit after Scotland Yard while Mrs Hudson kept watch, but I took over at midnight, and after exactly no sleep from the night before, I was completely exhausted. But I was very much afraid of what Sherlock might do. Cigarettes could be a problem with lesser stresses. But on days and nights like this, he had a tendency to turn to the harder stuff. And I didn’t mean challenging violin pieces. 

There was only so much I could do, of course. I didn’t dare invade his bedroom, and I had no idea if he had any stashes in the flat. I was lucky that he spent most of his time in the sitting room, and his intense jags of violin composition helped keep me alert. But his utter refusal to talk was maddening. It was British to be reticent, British men even more so, and Sherlock even more than that. And yet, I couldn’t help but think that letting loose a few words might release some of the pressure in that gargantuan brain of his. Perhaps, if we were lucky, it would even help him understand a little about what he was feeling. But he said nothing. Just paced, and played, and stared out the window. 

Around six, however, he became suddenly alert, and ran to his bedroom, and returned with Emma’s laptop. Setting it on the desk, he snapped it open and quickly typed something in, only to be met with another denial. He yelled in frustration and for a moment, I was afraid he was going to throw the laptop across the room. Instead, he closed it gently, then put his hands together in front of his face and stared at it as if his will would force it to reveal its secrets. 

“I heard from Lestrade that Colin is already back in town. You were right, it was his misappropriated code used on the CCTV systems and Parliament servers. I could go to his flat this morning and ask him about the password. Then it wouldn’t matter what state his phone was in.”

Without pausing his intense stare toward the laptop, he said, “Too bad you didn’t remember to ask him when you saw him at Scotland Yard yesterday evening.”

Dammit. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. 

“I can’t do anything about that now, but I can go see him at a decent hour.”

Sherlock just kept staring at the closed laptop, and said nothing more at all. It was a little unnerving that he didn’t ask to come with me—or, as would have been more like him, just invited himself along. He might have seen it as an opportunity to sneak out and obtain illicit substances. But he seemed far too interested in what was on the laptop to give up on such an opportunity so quickly. 

“Sherlock, I need you to promise me you will stay here and get some rest. Doctor’s orders. You haven’t slept in two days, and haven’t eaten anything in over twenty four hours. I will take care of this. I may even be able to find out something more from Colin when I see him.”

I can’t express how jarring it was when Sherlock simply got up and walked to his room, shutting the door behind him without saying a word. That simply never happened. Never.

I pulled out my phone and texted Colin.  We need to meet sooner. Text me location.

It was a tense hour and a half before Colin texted me back.  Meet me at the cafe on the corner of Goswell and Old St., 20 min.

I immediately pulled on my coat and went down to Mrs Hudson’s and knocked on the door. She opened the door, bleary eyed and in her housecoat. 

“I’m sorry to wake you, Mrs Hudson, but I need to go out right away. I’m hoping to get information that will help him. Can you take over?”

She blinked a few times, then nodded. “Just let me get my slippers.” She went back into her flat, leaving the door open, chattering herself awake as she found her things. 

“It really is a shame, seeing him like this. Was she one of those…was she like the other one?”

“No, Mrs Hudson. She was rather nice, actually.”

“Oh that’s nice.” Then she stopped, thinking. “Though a bit odd, isn’t it? For him, I mean.”

I would have smiled, but I was too worried and tired to. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

She came out, shut her door behind her, and toddled upstairs. Once I heard the door shut behind her, I went out and hailed a cab.

Monday morning traffic in London is abominable, but I still managed to make it to the cafe a few minutes early. After looking around and not seeing Colin, I had a seat and ordered coffee, though at the moment I was doubtful that a single coffee would be enough.

It was nearly ten minutes after the meeting time when Colin showed up, looking a bit frazzled. He quickly sat across from me.

“I’m so sorry, it took a while to find what I needed, and I wasn’t quite prepared for your message.”

“So what is it you needed to tell me?”

He pulled out his phone, pulled up something on it, and handed it to me.

It was a bit unnerving seeing a sleeping Emma on the screen. But it had to be an old photo. Her hair was much longer, and the scrapes and bruises were completely gone. I handed the phone back.

“Why are you showing me an old picture of Emma? And how long had you been taking pictures of your employer while she slept?”

He glared at me, tapped his phone and handed it back. It now had the normal tags that phones put on photos, such as location, time, and date. 

It was dated this morning, about forty five minutes prior.

While that threw me for a moment, I shook my head and handed the phone back again. “That’s easy enough to doctor, especially for someone with your skills, I am sure. What precisely are you trying to prove? That she’s alive?”

“Yes, actually.”

I laughed an uncomfortable, incredulous laugh for a moment. I wasn’t sure whether to be angry or worried about Colin’s mental health. “I saw her die, you know. I saw the bullet go through her neck. I’m a doctor, and I’ve been to war. People don’t come back from that sort of thing.”

“She does. This was her eighth death.”

Now I was getting angry. “This is not funny, Mr Gidney. Death is not something to be mocked, especially so soon after the fact. I would think that you, of all people—”

He put a photograph in front of me. It was an old, square photo, black and white, with a border, rather faded. It looked like an old hospital ward: there were beds with men in them, and a couple dancing and laughing in the middle of the photo. The man was missing his left arm, and the woman had tinsel in her curly hair. The face of the woman chilled my gut to solid ice. The hair was slightly different, but the face was unmistakable. It was Emma. 

I flipped the photo over. On the yellowing back were written the words, “Christmas 1917, London Hospital.”

“His name was Mason Genn. That photo was taken seven months before he died in the Spanish influenza epidemic.”

I flipped the photo back over and just stared at it while I held my hand over my mouth. Colin continued talking.

“Emma was born in 1785. In 1806, her husband, Thomas Ashwood, killed her while she was trying to stop him from raping her maid Sarah Cate—my ninth-great grandmother. Thomas then forced Sarah to help him dispose of her body in the River Waveney. Somehow—we have never figured out how—she came out of that river an hour later, alive, naked, with only a scar to show for the slashed neck that killed her.”

He put the phone back in front of me, pointing out the edge of an angry scar just visible on her neck.

“Oh god oh god—” I kept muttering. This was impossible. But Colin didn’t have time to have doctored everything in front of me, did he? And more importantly, what reason would he have to do it?

“My family has served her ever since, and for the most part we have been her only companions and friends. She was always very shy and bookish, but she did go out upon occasion.”

He pushed the photograph in front of me again. “During World War I, she volunteered at London Hospital to help the convalescing soldiers and met Mason Genn. She never liked having her photo taken—for reasons that should now be somewhat obvious—but one of the soldiers took this during their Christmas party in the hospital. She later paid him for it, because it was all she had left to remind her of Mason.”

He now took the photo and carefully put it back into a portfolio he had brought with him. I had to look at him now—his face somewhat sad, but mostly resigned. 

“After Mason died, she completely shut herself off from the world. Helen—my great-great grandmother—tried everything, but it was like she didn’t want to live anymore. After World War II, she bought the bombed-out building that became our current home, and she never left it until I was a teenager. Never. I was finally able to talk her into going out a bit, but still I was only able to do it occasionally. She had become so used to being inside that she had forgotten what it was like to be out. To live.”

All sorts of things she had mentioned—from the conversation on the train where she had mentioned the young man who had died ‘long ago,’ to her comments in the Edinburgh cafe where she had spoken with glorious wonder of the things she had forgotten about being out—came rushing to my mind now. And it made sense. Sort of, in a very supernatural sort of way, it made sense. 

“Whenever she dies, for some reason, she sort of ‘regenerates’ in the closest natural body of water. So when you told me yesterday morning what had happened, I found out where you were and went to find her on the bank of the River Leith, and I took her home. She was pretty upset, of course, but she had been last time she died, as well, so I didn’t think much of it. When I was just back from MIT, she had been out with my parents when they were in a bad automobile accident and everyone was killed.”

He paused in his narrative, then pulled the photo back out and placed it in front of me again. “Then I realised something: when she died twelve years ago, my parents, of course, had died, too. She had known my mother since the day she was born, and had known my father for almost thirty years. They were good friends, and, along with me, her only companions. Most of her grieving then was for their deaths, not hers. So why was she so despondent this time?”

He tapped the photo. “John, have you ever seen this look on her face?”

I looked at the photo and nodded. “Saturday night, when she was dancing with Sherlock, she looked very much like that.”

When I looked up at him, he had tears in his eyes. “I have never seen her like that. I have known her since the day I was born, and I have never, ever seen her that happy.”

I covered my mouth again, and we were both silent for a long minute. 

“She was afraid to tell us, wasn’t she.”

“Terrified. She says she is a freak, and that if learning she was alive didn’t drive him mad, that Sherlock’s only interest in her would be to try out various methods of murder.”

I pushed my hair back from my forehead. “She might not be wrong about that.”

Colin sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and we both just stared at the photo for a long time. “I had hoped,” he began, hesitated, then continued, “I had hoped, after what you told me last night, that some of the rapport might be mutual. But I’ve no idea how, or if, we could let him know. Especially so expressly against her wishes. I was hoping you would have some ideas.”

He took a careful breath, then picked the photo up and placed it carefully back into the portfolio again. 

But I could only shake my head. “I have no solutions.”


	24. Chapter 24 (Emma POV)

Monday I woke up about six thirty, unable to sleep any longer though I hadn’t been able to fall asleep until well after midnight. Still, I didn’t get out of bed for another twenty minutes. I didn’t see the point. An emptiness filled my bones and sinews with a physical ache. But then my stomach began to hurt, and I remembered I had not eaten since before I had died—and I had been pretty sure for the last few deaths that any food I had eaten disappeared to the same mystical place my clothes ended up, so I might as well have never eaten at all. 

I got out of bed, pulled on my robe, and shuffled to the kitchen. As I was buttering a muffin, Colin came in to get some coffee. While he moved about getting the mug and everything he needed, he watched me closely with worried eyes and crumpled, tilted eyebrows. It would have been annoying if I had had the strength to care. 

“You are not okay.”

“Nobody is okay twenty four hours after they die.”

“I think this is something more.”

“You’ve only ever seen me after one other death, and that time we were both also dealing with the deaths of your parents. This isn’t any worse than that.”

“That’s precisely what I am saying. Last time you were dealing with the deaths of two close friends as well as your own. Why would you be behaving as though someone close to you died this time?”

I couldn’t answer for a long moment, because I knew he was right. It did feel like someone else had died. I finally responded softly, “It will just take some time to adjust and recover, that’s all. This time was quicker and less painful than most of my deaths, but I would never call dying ‘fun.’”

He nodded, but as he drank his coffee, he continued to observe me and his expression didn’t change, so I knew he was still worried. But I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I just wanted to finish my muffin and not think or talk about anything at all.

“I have that meeting with the hiring agent this morning.”

He had told me of this the night before, so I smiled. “I’m so glad you decided to take that job. I am so proud of you. I know you will thrive and love it.”

He smiled back in acknowledgement, but only with his mouth. 

I was trying to only show the part of me that was exceptionally pleased that he was moving forward and would be able to live and progress in his own life. Not the part that was terrified of soon becoming completely alone. His concerned looks were not helping. So I spent the next minute fully engrossed in finishing my muffin.

He finished his coffee, washed out his mug, and looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go. But, Emma,”

He then surprised me by wrapping me in a bear hug, which came very close to squeezing the tears from me. He whispered in my ear, “It’ll be okay. Things won’t be as bad as you are fearing. I promise.”

Then he stood back up and looked me straight in the eye. “We’ll both be here for at least a few weeks more, and you can still change your mind about moving out to some little cottage. But if you  do decide to go, I won’t be that far away. I will come to visit often. And when I get married and have children I will make sure they also know you well. So stop thinking you are going to be all alone.”

Damn, I was always so obvious. I nodded and managed a weak smile, but I couldn’t say anything or else I would have started bawling. He squeezed my hand one more time, smiled a reassuring smile, and turned away to leave. Then he bowed his head, hesitated, and turned back. 

“Do you know why I came back? Why I stayed?”

“After your parents died?”

“Yes.”

I gave a tiny shrug, moving a solitary muffin crumb around on the table with my finger. “Familial duty. Obligation.”

He huffed a single, slightly amused breath from his nose. “I was far too ambitious and determined to escape for that. But—”

He paused, and his voice became quieter and so intertwined with deep emotion that it hurt to hear it, giving me the instinct to walk away. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear of the life he had given up for me. But then he surprised me.

“When I got the call that morning that my parents had been killed, and then I called the flat and you weren’t here, I knew I had to find you, had to bring you home. That one last duty before returning to my own life. I was grieving so much for myself, I hardly thought you were anything more than the eternal, humanoid machine you sometimes pretended to be.

But then I found you, muddy and dishevelled, hiding on the banks of the Regents Canal. You looked so tiny and helpless. Bedraggled, even. The thing that struck me most, though, was how red and puffy your eyes were, and how you couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop apologising. It was a sunny day, in high summer, at least thirty degrees out. I knew it couldn’t be from the cold. And as I heard you constantly apologising to me about my parents, and how you couldn’t save them, I realised two things. First, that you loved them. Perhaps more than I did, because you had known them longer, and they were all you had. I had friends in at least two countries, and prospects for more. And you had nothing.”

He drew a breath that shuddered so much that I looked up at his face, surprised to see tears in his eyes, and his gaze on me unwavering.

“And the other was that because you knew they were dead, you must have died after they had. I’ve never known how long it took you to die after they did, but you had to watch them, your dearest living friends, die in front of you. While you could not stop it, and you could not join them. And you had seen this same thing countless times before. And now, instead of feeling sorry for yourself or traumatised that you had just died, you were  apologising.  To  me.  Because my parents had died, through no fault of your own whatsoever.”

He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose softly, because the tears could no longer be held back. 

“And I realised I could never abandon you. Not then, not now, not ever. Because you aren’t a machine. You are all the family I have left in the world and you loved us more than I can ever imagine.”

I was stunned, frozen and silent. He wiped his tears away and smiled at me. 

“So don’t entertain for one second the idea that I will ever abandon you.” He put his hands on my upper arms, kissed my cheek gently, then turned around and left. 

I listened to his footsteps fading down the hallway, then the sound of the lift as it picked him up and carried him away, and everything descended into silence. I stood there for a long time, lost in thought, and with more than a little awe at my youngest boy. 

But then the thoughts faded, and the lonely silence closed in. I have been alone in the flat countless times before, of course. This time it seemed suffocating. I could hear my own heartbeat. I could hear the near silent hum of the electricity running through the walls and appliances. I could even hear the faint noise of London, traffic, and people bustling about outside. The sounds of living. And they were so far away.

I shook my head in a desperate attempt to pull myself from the despair that threatened to swallow me whole. I had to find something to divert me. I dared not go out, though I found myself longing to. I had recently been reported as dead. The chance of someone seeing me who might recognise me, however minuscule, was more than I could risk. 

I went into the sitting room and carefully examined the spines of every book in my bookshelf. Some books I even took out and rifled through, but eventually I rejected every one of them. I moved to the study and went through every bookshelf in there as well, but none seemed satisfactory. I had read them all before, and for some reason, re-reading anything right now, even old favourites, did not appeal to me in the least. 

I looked at the clock and sighed. It was twenty minutes past seven. Fifty minutes gone. Eternity to go. 

I turned to the computer. Surely the near limitless scope of the Internet could provide something diverting. I had to avoid news sites—they were filled with articles about the beheadings and the resolution to the crimes—but I soon grew weary of the pointlessness of trying to correct articles on wikis, and after hundreds of recipe videos, less-than-amusing memes, and vapid celebrity articles, not to mention a few thousand cat videos, I gave up. Now I was not only bored, but my eyes ached and I felt a little sick to my stomach. 

The clock now read nine thirty. I went into the kitchen and made myself some tea. I had to rummage around for lemon, which I don’t usually take, but the tea seemed to have no taste the way I usually took it. The lemon didn’t help much, but I finished it anyway. 

I had to beat this. I had to. And, I told myself, staying in my dressing gown all morning was not a good first step. My pace and posture once again livened with renewed determination, and I picked out some clothing, even socks and shoes, then bathed and dressed. Then I spent the next twenty minutes using product and a comb to attempt to bring my now annoyingly-long hair under control. 

I tried not to look at the clock again. I knew that looking again would only enhance the torture. But the pull was so strong that the fight against it become obsessive and counter-productive, so I checked again. Quarter of eleven. I groaned and went back into the sitting room. 

I stared at the piano I had been avoiding all day. Books, Internet, those things could be diverting. But playing music—even more than listening to it—was emotive. It saturated your soul and enhanced every emotion with such perfect clarity that I strongly doubted I could play for long without being dragged into the depths of the despair I had been fighting all day. All of the last two days. But the ivory was calling and I no longer had the strength to resist them. 

I slid onto the stool and let my fingers glide over the keys, then arched my hands over the keyboard in a position comfortable and familiar. And I began to play.

I played standard classical pieces first, of course. Etudes, mostly. Those were safe. There were occasional modulations into minor keys, but nothing too terrible. But since I was playing completely from memory, without any sort of playlists or requests, the pieces that I played were almost completely dictated by my whims. And my whims, when unchecked in such a state, trended more and more towards the melancholy. Chopin, Scarlatti, Beethoven, Mozart. 

Then I moved into some of the more modern—at least to me—blues pieces. Not only were many of them songs that I had performed at MacIntosh’s memorial, bringing up sharp memories, but singing made the pieces more painful. Playing made the sadness clear. Singing made you relive it. 

I wasn’t sure how long I had been singing—I had at last achieved the time loss I had been seeking all day—when there was a knock on the door. I was both relieved and annoyed by the distraction, but as I expected Colin to have been home by now anyway, I wasn’t surprised. Still, it took a long moment for me to compose myself.

“Did you forget your key, or lose it?” I called as I turned around on the stool, stood, and headed toward the door. “I’ve always told you if you would keep your keys on a ring, you wouldn’t have such trouble keeping track of them.”

When I opened the door, however, it was not Colin standing there.

It was Sherlock.

My entire body turned cold, then hot, blood draining from my head and my stomach clenching. I stepped back and tried to lean heavily on the door knob for support, but I missed and toppled over, hitting my head on the door jamb on my way to landing hard on my backside. Adding a physical stun to the mental and emotional one was almost more than I could bear, and it took great effort to not burst into tears. I rubbed at my bruised head for a moment before looking up, just to make sure it was really him.

He still stood in the doorway, statuesque in his stupefaction. His eyes were frozen on me, pinched and confused. But there was something else, too—a softness, a sadness, in his eyes that I had neither seen before nor expected. Neither of us moved or made a sound for at least two minutes, I was sure. 

Finally, my brain began to function again. Was this why Colin had taken so long to return?

“Did Colin tell you?”

The shake of his head was almost imperceptible. “Not on purpose.”

I felt my question contort my eyebrows. “How did he—’not on purpose’ tell you?”

“John said he was going to try to meet Colin this morning, to get your laptop password. I had been trying to break into it. I needed to know what had happened. Yesterday morning.”

His voice almost broke when he said it, and the pain I had felt over the assumption that my body’s disappearance would traumatise him, became immeasurable now that I saw my assumption actualised. I could do nothing but lift my head in half a nod, trying to tell him that I understood and I wished him to continue. 

“He sent Mrs Hudson up to keep an eye on me, but I just slipped out my bedroom window and followed him.”

“You followed him?”

“Yes. Though I despise ever having to tell a cabbie to follow another cab. It just seems so…overdone.”

“Oh.”

There was an awkward pause, then he continued. “Once John reached the cafe, I managed to position myself to eavesdrop on his conversation with Colin.”

“How were you able to do that without them noticing you?”

“I…have means.”

“Means?” My eyes narrowed. “You bugged them?”

“A hidden app on John’s phone. It’s there for emergencies.”

“Does he know about this app?”

“No, of course not. That’s the point of a hidden app.”

The motherly instinct I had developed with Colin and many of his forebears kicked in before I could stop it. “Do you realise that is not okay?”

He looked away, swallowing hard, the muscles of his mouth and jaw flexing over and over with pent up distress. I was already deeply regretting my words when he finally turned back to me and was able to speak.

“Neither is dying. Especially like that.”

I stepped back, stunned and pained into silence, but his eyes returned to pin me with accusation and hurt.

“Why did you step in front of us? Why did you make yourself the target?”

I had thought it would only be the inexplicable disappearance of my body that would be traumatising, and only to his scientific mind. Apparently, there were more reasons which I was struggling to comprehend and accept. This threw me off so much that my next words had a surprising amount of snark to them. “I have died and recovered seven times before. I could only assume that would make it easier for me to recover from death than anyone else there.” 

That was, apparently, not an acceptable explanation. “But you didn’t  know. Colin told John that no one has been able to figure out how or why this happens. One must assume that you will not be able to escape the natural order of death forever. So I ask you again: why did you put yourself in the line of fire?”

I swallowed hard. He was right, of course. I didn’t want to say why, even to myself. But I hadn’t wanted to traumatise him like this, either.

“Because.” The word caught in my tightened throat so badly that it was hardly audible, and I had to try a second time. “Because the thought of a world without me was far more acceptable than the thought of a world without you.”

His clenched features suddenly released, his brows lifting in a realisation that had somehow never occurred to him. 

It was too much for me. I was exposed now, not only in my ghastly relationship with death, but emotionally. I started to get up so that I could back away. All of my anxieties were once again rearing up with ferocious intensity.

“Now you know. I hope that the knowledge brings you peace.” But then his hand reached out to help me up, and I was too surprised to refuse it. Then he would not let me pull away.

“Please, don’t…don’t.”

I stopped trying to retreat, but I let go of his hand. 

“Colin said you were afraid to tell me.”

I swallowed hard again, just managing a small nod.

“I won’t experiment on you.”

“You’ve already drugged me. You’ve also drugged John, as well as followed and spied and bugged and who knows what else on him. And he is your best friend! Knowing things is far more important to you than how others might feel about how you obtain that information. How can I believe that you would never experiment on me, when what I am is so…demoniac? As well as related to the work you love?”

He pressed his lips together. “Because I know that it would hurt you if I did, even if I cannot understand what it feels like. No matter what I have done to John, I try not to intentionally hurt him anymore unless I knew it would spare him even more pain. I am not good with people. I hurt them. Most of the time, I don’t care if I hurt them. Sometimes I even hurt them on purpose. I am certainly no hero. But you…are important. I will fail sometimes. But I won’t consciously hurt you, and I will put forth more effort to avoid doing so unintentionally. I promise.”

I had to swallow hard. The promise was no longer enough. “But you will. You  will  hurt me. Even if you manage to go a lifetime without a mistake, you will hurt me because you will die. And that is the most horrid—” I had to stop, my throat so tight that I could barely breathe. My next words were much quieter. “That is the pain I can no longer deal with. Solitude protects me.”

He stared at me, and for a moment I thought he was realising the logic of my argument. That argument which he had, I was sure, used himself many times. But for the third time that day, I was surprised.

“No.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head while fluffing his hair with his hands, then repeated himself more firmly.  “No. I have told myself that all of my life, but it is a lie. Alone doesn’t protect us. Alone makes us vulnerable. Alone makes us weak and miserable, gives us nothing to fight for and nothing to make up for the times when we fail. Alone is what  brings pain. Alone is not a protection. Alone is not an advantage. We may think that alone prevents the pain. But the only thing that can stop the pain is caring, and alone never has that.”

I blinked, trying to understand how this self-proclaimed sociopath could have come to understand such a thing as that. Then he looked at me again, pressing his fingers against his temple.

“I had nothing but my work and I thought I was fine. Then John came along, and it was better, and I again thought that was all that I needed. But there was another place I had forgotten about, that even John couldn’t get to. And somehow you did.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My mind palace.” He tapped his fingers against his temple again. “Where I store things. Where I keep things safe. You managed to engineer your way in there, sneaking in when I was distracted by the case and the novelty of a clever person who didn’t happen to be bent on destruction or control. It unnerved me—terrified me, really. So I drove you out.” He blinked a few times, still trying to understand. “Then I realised that when you weren’t there, it wasn’t a very nice place. It wasn’t worth being there at all.”

He was dangerously close to making me give in. I only had one argument left in me, and it was a desperate one. 

“I’m a freak, Sherlock. I’m two hundred and twenty-nine years old and I have hardly left this flat in the last eighty years and I’m afraid of people so even when I do go out, I pretend to be other people and I really am a picky eater most of the time and I don’t like mobile phones and I’m terminally clumsy and no one likes to hear what I have to say and I talk way too fast and too much when I’m nervous and scared and no one will play trivia games with me not even on the Internet.”

As I rambled, half his mouth grew into a smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes and I had to stop because obviously I was not convincing him of any part of my argument.

“They call me a freak as well. It might be nice to have the company of one of my own.” 

That, I had to admit, was true.

I took a deep breath, forcing it to tangle around the bulk of my anxieties and carry them out as I exhaled. 

“I’m sorry I died and didn’t tell you I came back.”

He shrugged. “It happens.” 

“No, it doesn’t.”

Then he reached over and brushed his fingers through the hair around my face. “Does your hair always do this when you come back?”

“Yes,” I groaned, “And I hate it. I need to get it cut again.”

“I know someone who can do wonders with curly hair. And he owes me a favour.” He held out his hand to me, palm up. I paused, staring at his hand, considering what I was putting myself into. Then I put my hand in his, stepped out of my flat, and closed the door behind me.


End file.
